Return to Nosgoth
by Nocturnallydamned
Summary: Part 2 of 3. A group of vampires thrown back in time set out in search of Raziel. CONCLUSION UP NOW. If you guessed this ending, I'll eat my hat.
1. Uschtenheim

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Eidos interactive, Soul Reaver, Blood Omen or any of their respective characters (more's the pity).

**Author's Note_:_**_ Here begins "Return to Nosgoth", the sequel to my equally inspiringly titled "Lost on Nosgoth." Hopefully this story will be a bit more reader- friendly, and convince a couple more people to wade through the first chapter of the prequel. Anway, enjoy! And no, before anyone asks, I haven't forgotten about Antaris. Rest assured, his uppance will come. : )_

*

The bitter smell of sulphur lingered fleetingly in the air as flame was set to paper, its flickering, languorous dance reflected in irises the colour of the sea on a stormy summer afternoon. The voracious yellow spirit ate steadily downwards, engulfing the black type-set with insatiable appetite, swallowing words as diverse as "bailiff" and "credit card" indiscriminately. The last six months had amounted to a purgatory of dissociated events: if she didn't know better she'd say she was homesick.

Unlikely. With the amount of moving she'd done over the last 22 years, there simply was no particular town she'd call 'home', no place to which she could return in order to 'go back to her roots'. To make matters worse, she had turned down a post in her father's oil company, an act which, quite apart from surprising the old man, had left him embittered and estranged from his only offspring. Her consequent failure to get herself any other job had been compounded by her father's policy that he wasn't willing to invest in something that didn't pay back.

Daddy had cut her off.

She allowed the omnivorous flame to burn down almost to her fingertips before she dropped the charred remains of the letter into the metal bin. A knock on the door disturbed her reverie and reluctantly she rose to answer. Two men of vastly differing builds stood on her doorstep, where she greeted them resignedly, her gaze distant and capitulating.

"Repo men," said one. The other said nothing, but ogled the sight before him with a salacious snigger.

She motioned them inside and watched without interest as they carted object after object from her living room. Widescreen television followed 5- speaker stereo system followed Playstation followed PC and screen, and through it all, the woman remained silent and unmoved. She'd get more money from somewhere.

With a sly glance at his mate, the salacious one indicated with a tilt of his sparsely-covered head the display of weaponry that stood beneath a spotlight in one corner. He slunk towards it with an avaricious leer on his ratlike features.

"Oi, look at this!" His companion waddled his cumbersome bulk in his direction. "Hey, darling, what's a girl like you want with a pile of swords like this? You might hurt yerself. Better let us take these off yer 'ands."

His slightly slow-witted mate peered at his clipboard in puzzlement. "There's no mention about no swords on 'ere, 'Arry."

"Shut up," whined Harry, seeing that the woman had shown signs of suspicion. "Tell ya what. You let us take this top one and I bet I can get you a bit o' cash to get you back on yer feet, like."

As Harry's hand reached in greedy glee for the topmost weapon, the woman's eyes were drawn with it, and the notion that this ratlike little wretch might for one second lay a finger on her Dark Angel katana woke her from her fugue-like state. Freya crossed the room in a single bound, lifted the sword from its holder and unsheathed it, holding the point directly against the Repo man's chest.

"This stays."

Harry winked at his rotund companion and gave a short laugh. "Come on, darling, I were only joking. You put that down now, there's a good girl."

The woman was not listening, but was instead staring in apparent perplexity at the sword. The blade had been sharpened. There was no mistaking the whetstone tideline that flowed down the length of gleaming steel, but one thing was certain: she'd never - ever - taken a sharpener to the blade. So who had? An unexpected image blossomed with rare clarity in her inner eye; it showed a jet-haired, statuesque vampire clad in black, red and gold handing her the object she now appraised.

Raziel.

Suppressed memories resurfaced like dead bodies trawled from a lake. Even as the events in which she had participated on Nosgoth permeated her consciousness, she observed that all-too-familiar shimmering effect that had preceded both her entry to and exit from the vampire planet scarcely six months ago. She managed a shrug and a grin at the ratlike one and his portly companion before her apartment vanished from sight.

Harry scuffed a well-worn boot at the spot where, moments ago, Freya had been menacing him at sword-point. "Ain't one of 'em back at the depot gonna believe this one, Bill."

*

Graim was about to make his big debut. He stood, puff-chested and ready at the side of the open-air stage, his wooden sword in a rough leather holder at his side, wicker shield daubed red and white in a fair approximation of Sarafan heraldry. A sly glance at the waiting crowd showed that Leina, the wainwright's daughter was seated front and centre. He ran a hand through his curly golden locks in anticipation.

"Who will save me?" cried a shrill voice with a sense for the melodramatic. His cue. Drawing his wooden sword with a flourish, he bared his teeth in an approximation of a heroic grin and bounded onto the stage. Graim's opening line died on his lips as a figure appeared before him, clad head to toe in black satin, naked blade in one outstretched hand. A frown of annoyance crossed his face. He'd been upstaged.

Freya quickly assessed her new surroundings, the memory of her previous arrival on Nosgoth making her understandably wary. Judging from people's clothing and what she could see of the surrounding architecture, this was Nosgoth at a much earlier time than her last visit. A glance to either side showed she'd arrived in the middle of some amateur dramatic effort: to her left, four or five villagers with floured faces and berry juice around their mouths were half-way through menacing a busty young lady with pigtails; to her right stood a sallow-complexioned youth in tights with curly blonde hair and a toy sword - the hero of the piece. Utter silence reigned. A hundred pairs of eyes centred on her in hostile anticipation. Freya swallowed nervously, nightmare images of turning up to school in her pyjamas flashing through her brain. Given the choice, she'd rather have faced the blood demon again.

A clanking shuffle from the back of the crowd heralded the arrival of the Brute Squad. She had to think fast.

"And if you thought that was good, why not come along and see my Magic Show, right after the play?" She cringed inwardly. You could have heard a pin drop. One of the Sarafan at the back was beckoning grimly. Glad of any excuse to leave the stage, Freya hurried down the side steps where she was met by four warriors in that unmistakeable armour. As they escorted her from the purpose-built arena, Freya was aware that the curly-haired youth had delivered his line, but thanks to her, he'd lost his audience.

Out of earshot of the crowd, the man who had beckoned to her drew her into the shadowed archway beneath a bell-tower. Evidently an officer of some kind, he took charge of the proceedings and said, "You've got some nerve, Undead. Tell me your name quickly so I may add it to the list of those I've vanquished."  
Holding his gaze deliberately, Freya reached out and touched his hand. The Sarafan recoiled in loathing, drawing his weapon, only then realising the purpose of the gesture. The skin was warm.

"You're human?" She gave him a sarcastic smile. "Why are you dressed like that - is that not a mark of the Undead?" He indicated the Chinese horoscope symbol embroidered on her shirt. Freya's mind raced. Everything she'd seen so far pointed to the town being Uschtenheim, which - she hoped - meant that the Soul Reaver was probably running around somewhere nearby trying to get to Janos Audron's retreat.

"I'm a demon hunter." The words were out of her mouth before she'd properly considered them. The officer's suspicious glare convinced her to add, "I'm looking for a blue-skinned apparition with torn wings - have you seen it?"

The guards exchanged worried glances, their disbelief subsiding somewhat. "Yes. It ran through town several times yesterday - scared the townsfolk half to death." The officer appraised her once more. "You're tracking it? Alone?"

Freya nodded thoughtfully. "Which way did it go?"

One of the guards stepped forward and indicated a metal gate with a walkway on top. "It disappeared there, then reappeared up there - the two guards at the top were killed."

If memory served, this was the way to the Aerie. "Thanks. I'll be on my way."

"Now?" the officer blurted out. "But it's after dark."

Freya graced him with a wicked smile. "Don't worry about me - I'm in disguise."

Shaking his head in bemusement, the officer ordered the gate opened. "Once this gate closes, it will not be reopened for you tonight."

With a final glance at Uschtenheim, Freya slipped from the lighted street of the town into the unknown darkness beyond. Once outside the gate and away from the glare of the streetlights, the darkness was not complete. Freya could easily make out the walls and floor of the winding rocky passageway she now planned to follow. A sudden thought caused her to wonder what gadgets she might have inadvertently brought with her from Earth. A quick rummage through her trouser pockets revealed a handful of loose change and a lip-balm. Her shirt was a tad more helpful and eventually gave up a small book of matches. At least she had the means to make a fire. Keeping the katana in her hand, she advanced cautiously along the passageway, hoping the Sarafan she might encounter would be as easily convinced as the guards in Uschtenheim.

Before long, the canyon narrowed, its walls steepening to end in high ledges. The perfect place for an ambush. However, since there was no point turning back (unless she wanted to camp outside the town gates until morning), Freya continued, each step punctuated by searching glances in all directions. A passing luminous green firefly caught her attention for a fraction of a second, and when she returned her gaze to the path ahead, she found it blocked by several armed men. Their speed and silence suggested that she had encountered the first of this era's vampirekind, and a glance to her rear assured her that they'd also covered that contingency.

At that moment, Freya made a decision. On her next trip to Nosgoth, she was bringing a tank.

"Evening." She called, with a little more bravado than she was feeling.

"That it is." Responded the nearest of the group in front. He advanced slowly, biding his time. The prey was not going anywhere. "It's a little late to be out for a walk, human."

The 'disguise', while dark enough to fool the Sarafan, was evidently not going to cut any ice with the Vampires. They could smell a warm body a mile away.  
Freya inched around so her back was against the left wall of the canyon. At least this way she'd be able to see the first attack. "I'm looking for someone."  
"What a coincidence," said the lead vampire with a malicious and decidedly thirsty grin.

Freya kept her eyes on him, nonetheless aware that the group to her rear had begun to advance. If she let them catch up she'd have twice as many to deal with, so, relying heavily on the element of surprise, she launched a blinding flurry of blows at the one who had spoken, his stunned look accompanying his lifeless body to its knees. A series of vengeful cries arose from the remainder, one of whom was shouting for their commanding officer, and Freya turned to face the next adversary, determined to give them the fight of their lives before the night was over. It wasn't long before the woman was desperately wishing she'd brought Sai, or a Tanto, or any other weapon that might have aided her in combating more than one opponent. They were coming at her from both sides now, and despite a strenuous effort on her part, the outcome was inevitable.

One of the rearguard contingent lunged into an opening left by a less successful companion, and took a firm grasp on Freya's neck, lifting her off the ground and pinning her effectively to the wall of the canyon. Sometime in the course of the next minute's frenzied struggle, during which she was relieved of her katana, Freya spotted something that made her cease all resistance and stare in complete confusion at the grim-faced creature holding her aloft. He was wearing a Clan symbol. That just wasn't possible. If she'd got her time-scales right (and she was pretty sure she had), the Clans didn't even exist yet. And yet there it was, bright red on black and right before her eyes.

With a concerted effort to loosen the creature's grip, she managed to voice a hoarse whisper: "Razielim."

A massive figure detached itself from the shadows at the edge of the path, clad in slab-like jet-black armour, head adorned with a huge, horned helmet. It approached with slow, steady strides, the rest of the men drawing respectfully aside to let it pass. The vampire that held Freya had loosened its grip somewhat at her astonishing words, though it still held her against the rough rock surface.

"What are you doing here - I mean - now?" she whispered in confusion.

The dark figure paused beneath Freya's still-wriggling form, narrowed eyes appraising her from within the confines of the demonic helm. After a moment's consideration it doffed the item, allowing the woman's eyes to make out his features in the dim twilight.

"I brought them."

Recognition slowly dawned.

"Isca?"


	2. Isca

Thundering air. Churning water. Boiling blood. The final, desperate struggle of a drowning man.

A sky the colour of tarnished pewter leached inch by inch into the creature's consciousness. Something was amiss. Vertical - the sky was vertical! Half-formed claws scrabbled in panic at the sun-warmed rock- face, like those of an insect about to be tipped unwanted from a garden stone. Understanding bloomed: he was lying on his side. With the arrival of full consciousness, the sensations of boiling blood and churning water receded to the status of a fevered dream. The air, however, was still filled with the sound of thunder. A determined effort saw the creature able to raise his head, long black locks momentarily obscuring his vision, and survey his surroundings. With a heavy heart, he crawled the remaining thirty feet to where the ground cut off sharply, the roar of the water growing stronger with every second.

The Abyss.

Here the tragedy had transpired. Here the unspeakable had happened. Here he had lost his Lord. As Isca looked down into the whirling circle of spume that marked the mouth of the vortex, his eyes were drawn inexorably to its centre, and by and by he was seized by an insane desire to dive into the inviting chasm. Shaking his head as though to clear it, Isca fought against the growing sense of vertigo that assailed him, and dragged his body away from the edge of the precipice. The rest of the scene was deserted, the Lieutenants and their Master having long departed. Isca also noted with some alarm that there was no sign of Freya. He hoped fervently - for her sake - that she had been cast into the vortex after Raziel. Better that than the fate she could expect at the hands of Kain.  
The fledgeling rose and dusted himself off, a keen sense of loss pervading his every thought. What would become of the Razielim without their leader? The Lieutenants were too prideful to accept the necessity of a second-in- command, and although there were high-ranking officers among the Elite, Isca doubted any one of them was up to the task ahead. That aside, he accepted his own responsibility - he must return to his Clan as the bearer of these woeful tidings. As his steps took him to the far end of the plateau, he glimpsed the banner that marked the entrance to the Sanctuary of the Clans, the symbol and its inherent meaning causing the fledgeling to stop dead in his tracks. What madness was this? The Clans were supposedly united in their quest for dominance over the humans - why then would brother turn against brother? A snarl curled the corner of the vampire's upper lip as the true horror of the deed he had witnessed became clear. One thing was for certain: from this day forward, no Turelim or Dumahim cousin would ever find quarter at his hand.

Isca's disconsolate stride brought him at length to the gates of his late master's domain. Heart filling with dread, he passed into the shadows beneath the empty portals, passing the word to those he saw to gather for a meeting of the entire Clan. The news did not go down well. As Isca had feared, there were few among the Razielim Elite who would even consider assuming the role, such had been the awe and respect inspired by their former Lord. The fledglings were even less helpful. The room was in danger of sinking into yet another uproar of uncertainty and turmoil when an icy, penetrating voice cut through the proceedings, silencing all.

"Is this truly the legacy my late brother leaves me? A battalion of overgrown fledgelings and a handful of mis-reared pups?"

The Razielim turned as one entity to locate the source of the mocking words. Turel stood beneath the Clan banner that adorned the main entrance to the hall, flanked on either side by a large number of his Elite. Still more were ranged behind him, lines of peaked helmets and razor-tipped staves snaking into the far distance. This was no courtesy call. Raziel's Elite cast uncertain glances at one another, unsure as to who should step forward to address the Vampire Lieutenant. After a moment's delighted viewing of this scene of blatant indecision, Turel uttered a harsh, scornful laugh.

"As I thought. Not one of you has the backbone to take charge."

Isca looked frantically from one Elite guard to the next. Would no-one challenge him?

"So be it. I claim this territory and all its vassals - which formerly belonged to my dear departed brother - in the name of the Clan Turelim." The vampire strode forward with a flourish, fixing the crowd with his lurid stare. "Henceforth you will accept me as your Lord. Any of you who do not accede to this new order will be summarily executed as traitors and may follow your beloved master into the Lake of the Dead. Any questions?"

Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Isca blurted out, "I have one."

That dratted fledge. Turel should have convinced Kain to throw him in after Raziel. "Proceed."

"Are you prepared to massacre the entire Clan to achieve your end?"

Turel considered this. He would prefer not to have to repopulate the entirety of his brother's vast domain, and the acquisition of new troops had been half the reason for his invasion; but the fledge was obviously bluffing. "Of course," he said with a magnanimous grin.

"Very well," responded Isca, looking around him for support. "It comes to this. There is not one of us who would not gladly give up his immortal soul before he'd see you take control of these lands." Knowing that his next comment might well be his last, Isca steeled himself and said, "You're not worthy, Turel." The fledgling was aware that he spoke out of place, and was half expecting his captain, who was standing behind him, to cuff him on the ear.

Turel's smile of triumph drained from his face. No fledge had ever insulted him before, let alone in front of such a gathering. His claws clenched into tight fists, thunder rumbled in his throat and his lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl that revealed the overgrown canines in their full vicious beauty. The time for pleasantries was over.

"Attack! Take them all! Leave none standing!"

As the Turelim stampeded into the hall, the Razielim, heartened by the words the fledge had voiced - not to mention the insult - met the charge of their cousins with the wild, selfless fury of the bereft. Despite the fact that the majority of them were unarmed, they fought their adversaries with the lances of wrath, the spears of hate. Turel, incensed by the youngster's brazen words, made a deliberate and violent attempt to cut a path through the ranks of his brother's men to the source of his humiliation, injuring some of his own troops in the process. Shortly, he came up against a solid wall of Elite guards. Far from discouraged, the Lieutenant drew his blade with unnerving speed and hacked with mindless mania at the bare-chested vampires that faced him, his every stroke punctuated by a sadistic cry of mingled frustration and euphoria.

Rare were the occasions when Clan turned against Clan, and this day's bloodletting was testament to the scarcity of such events; the scene was red chaos. Centuries-old killing machines were set loose upon one another with deep-rooted motives driving their every slash, thrust and bite. Opportunity was taken wherever it arose to tear at an enemy's throat, thereby leeching the strength with which age had imbued the blood. Driven by latent loyalty, the Razielim fought like cornered wolves, their every move shearing Turelim flesh, bare hands sufficing - and satisfying - in place of weapons, and it was not long before the Vampire Lieutenant perceived that this was one battle he was not going to win.

A full third of Turel's company had fallen before their obsessed leader called a retreat, by which time the ground, along with much of the walls and windows, was literally drenched in gore. As the Lieutenant sidled - himself injured - towards the exit, he cast a final hateful glance at the upstarts who had dared oppose his will, ranged in bloodied, growling ranks above the remains of his men. His gaze connected with that of Isca, the rebellious fledge who had affronted him, and he addressed him with a deadly, ominous whisper.

"You will have cause to rue this day, fledgling." And with a final baleful glare at his brother's descendants, Turel departed.

Over the course of the next few months, the Razielim Clan became something of a black sheep, ostracised from the rest of vampiredom for their refusal to join with Turel. Isca, still numb from the loss of his mentor, took to roaming the Turelim and Dumahim borders alone, looking for trouble. It was on one of these ill-advised night hikes that his ordeal began. His path this evening had taken him past a small sanctuary that consisted of a cave set in a canyon wall in the Razielim borderlands. His keen senses told him that a lone Dumahim was inside, and so after a brief search of a nearby village, he returned to the cave and dumped a squirming burden on the floor before the retreat. As if on cue, the human emitted a frightened squeal, tantalising the creature inside with thoughts of easy prey. Moments later, the vampire emerged, hungry eyes locked on the terror-stricken girl. With dispassionate intent, Isca stepped from the shadows and without so much as a glance at his enemy's face, took off the creature's head with a single backhand slash. Ignoring the uncomprehending cries of the young woman, he continued on his way, his eyes lifeless and devoid of emotion.

A blood moon sank slowly towards the horizon, her usually bright glow dulled by the approaching sunrise. The ruddy light turned the slippery mud to the semblance of pureed meat as Isca pressed onward, his cloven feet leading him he knew not where. Presently he became aware of the approach of a large group of men at arms. Not caring now whether they were Sarafan or Vampire, the fledgling drew his weapon and stood, head down in the darkened clearing, awaiting his fate. Snide comments drifted to his ears. He waited until the group had him surrounded before raising his eyes to meet those of the Elite who led them. The look on the young vampire's face gave his elder cause for concern, and with good reason. As the fledgling recognised the Clan armour of his adversaries, he was overcome with a frenzy of bloodlust and fell into a berserk rage. His forceful attack felled several of their number before they managed to restrain him; even then it took three of their Elite to keep him under control. Their taunting mood dispersed, the Turelim accompanied the still-struggling Razielim back to their Clanlands in sullen silence. Their Lord had ordered him taken alive.

Turel slumped brooding in a massive throne of lapis lazuli, the devastating wound he had sustained in the recent battle but lately healed. His head was bowed almost onto his chest, face steeped in sombre shadow. As the sounds of the approaching struggle reached his ears, his eyes flicked up and locked with burning intensity on the bane of his defeat. A slow smile curved his dark lips, while his eyes remained cold, heartless, vengeful. Isca met his gaze with staunch indifference. Turel would get no satisfaction from him.

"Ahh . . .the upstart." The voice was velvet-soft, deceptive.

Isca responded through gritted teeth. "The betrayer."

"Impudent boy." Turel's smirk contradicted his tone. "Renounce your master and swear allegiance to me and I'll think about sparing your life."  
Isca laughed openly. "You don't deserve my allegiance."

Turel rose from his throne and descended the steps, stalking towards the boy with something far worse than death in his eyes. "Your attachment to Raziel's memory is touching, fledge - but he is gone." He paused before Isca, face lit by an unpleasant, almost eager expression. "Last chance."

Isca grinned insolently at the Vampire Lieutenant and firmly shook his head.

"Good," replied the Lieutenant briskly, gesturing to the dungeon guards. "I was hoping you wouldn't disappoint me."

Turel's brutality was boundless.

*  
**Author's notes.**  
  
Thanks soooooooo much for the reviews (there just aren't enough 'o's in the world to express my gratitude)! It's great to know some of you guys out there like my babble.  
  
Deionarra: Many thanks for the heads-up - can't have my bus looking like that. *Wanders outside with hosepipe, sponge and stick-on Garfield*


	3. Timeshift

Isca was beginning to wish he'd heeded Raziel's lesson about keeping his big mouth shut: the Turelim's idea of torture was unique and unremitting. Far worse than any transitory physical pain was the mental torment his captor insisted on heaping upon Isca's already heavily burdened conscience. He plagued the troubled youngster at every opportunity with vivid retellings of his master's execution, and musings on how different things might have been had the boy arrived mere seconds sooner. Hour after hour of interminable suffering wrought havoc on the fledgling's soul, and Isca also discovered to his chagrin that there were some physical wounds from which not even Vampire flesh could escape unscathed. At long last, his anguished mind hovering an inch from madness, it became apparent that a brief respite had arisen in his ordeal. Although in the pitch black it was impossible to tell day from night by any difference in light, the young vampire perceived that a great deal of time had passed since his tormentors had last undertaken their regular visit. Weak from months of imprisonment and half mad from the Thirst, Isca managed by sheer tenacity to tear his way free from Turel's dungeon. Not a little perturbed by the apparent lack of Turelim throughout the lower levels, Isca made his way to the surface, random rodents restoring a small measure of his strength and presence of mind.  
  
Casting one last vengeful glance at Turel's strangely deserted fortress, the vampire turned his dogged footsteps in the direction of his own Clanlands.  
  
His arrival was met with surprise and elation from his comrades, most of whom thought him long destroyed. Isca soon found out the reason for Turel's absence: he had taken his entire militia and instigated an all-out war with mankind. He was currently cutting a swathe through the last remaining Sarafan strongholds in the South. The Razielim, still leaderless, were struck by the transformation the Turelim had inadvertently brought about in the boy. Fired in the furnace of Raziel's execution and forged in Turel's chamber of pain, Isca had emerged a changed being, stronger for the survival of his unjust trial. All now looked to him for direction. He insisted that his only desire was for the survival of the Clan, and revenge on Turel - not only for Raziel's death but now also for his own castigation. They followed him nonetheless.  
  
The years, fleeting instants in the lifespan of a vampire, rolled swiftly on, and still the Clans waged war against the ever-decreasing Sarafan forces. Eventually, the cull brought its own inevitable consequences. With few humans left from whom to draw sustenance, Vampire existence became a game of death as the Clans began to prey upon one other. The stagnation of the blood pool led to a kind of Vampiric inbreeding, a new plague from which the Clans, having all but eradicated their only food source, could not possibly hope to recover. The Turelim, first to succumb to the lure of the blood of their own kind, were hence the first Clan to descend into madness. Rattled by this new development, the Razielim first thought to seek out Kain in the hopes that the immortal might hold the answer to their dilemma. Isca returned from the Sanctuary disconsolate; the Vampire Master had not been seen in years. With a half-formed thought that ending Turel's reign might stem the plague, Isca gathered together a trusted group of his Elite and departed for the Turelim stronghold.  
  
The group was stunned by the blood-crazed, demented creatures they encountered from the moment they entered the Lieutenant's decaying domain, thinly-disguised disgust marking the disposal of their once-proud cousins. After a number of brief skirmishes, they reached Turel's throne room, where the creature himself sat in apparent nonchalance on his shimmering blue throne. Isca fought down a wave of nausea as he came once more into the presence of his former tormentor. Swallowing hard, he addressed his nemesis.  
  
"Stand forth, miscreant, and prepare to meet your end."  
  
The creature on the throne did not move, nor did he show any signs that he had heard the challenge. Forcing down another wave of revulsion, Isca cautiously approached the dais. As he drew nearer, the vampire perceived that something was amiss with the seated figure; it seemed somewhat . . . deflated, for want of a better word.  
  
One of the Razielim voiced a nervous laugh. "We are too late, Isca. The fiend has beaten us to it."  
  
With half an ear on his companion's words, Isca inched closer to the motionless figure, realising at last what was wrong. It was an empty shell. No light glimmered in the hollow eye sockets, no flesh filled the lifeless sack as it lay slumped in its opulent tomb: it was as if the Vampire had shed its skin.  
  
"That I have," The voice emanated from the deep shadows behind the throne. Isca backed off hurriedly. The voice was like a shroud scraping over grave dirt. Gathering his wits, the vampire gave the order to fire. Twenty crossbowmen fired in the direction of the sound, a hiss of inarticulate hatred proving that at least some of the arrows had found purchase. The ground groaned with strain as something massive began to drag its amorphous bulk from the shadows to the door at the left of the chamber.  
  
"After him!"  
  
The initial clatter of cloven feet was cut short as the Vampire Lieutenant passed beneath the shaft of sickly light that illumined this portion of the chamber. Each man recoiled as he saw his own nightmare vision; a beast that scuttled and slithered, a creature pulsing with putrescent foulness, a half-formed cross-breed of demon and the thing that should not be. Even as Isca watched paralysed, it slowly dawned on him that the metamorphosis was not complete. Turel was still changing. In this weakened state, they had their best - and probably only - chance at ending his wretched existence once and for all. With the disappearance of the foul being's rear end, the paralysis ended, and with a heartening shout to his company, Isca motioned them to follow him through the massive portal ahead. As the Razielim paused to look in wonder at the intricate moving mechanisms that adorned and illuminated the room (and ponder the distinct lack of a bulbous Vampire Lieutenant), Isca belatedly remembered the significance of the infinity symbol above the door. . .  
  
*  
  
Recently stoked embers glowed like sun-kissed rubies, replacing the night chill with a pleasant warmth. Above them, twisted, stretched and skinless, a small mammal roasted slowly on a makeshift spit, dropping occasional incendiary globs of fat into the flames below. Freya watched the animal turn in ravenous anticipation, secretly pleased that none of her companions would want a share. Isca had finished recounting his story, and was now awaiting her response from where he lounged at ease, to all appearances completely impervious to the lumpy ground.  
  
Dragging her attention away from the mouth-watering sight on the spit, Freya considered the latest part of Isca's story. "You followed Turel here. . ." Isca nodded. That explained why Raziel had not yet caught up to his brother - at least not the Vampire incarnation. "Any idea where he might be hiding?"  
  
Isca shook his head regretfully. "We've been unable to pick up the scent - despite his going through the Chronoplast moments before us."  
  
Freya considered this. "Maybe Raziel caught up with him."  
  
The low hum of conversation that had arisen about the campfire ceased abruptly, to be replaced by a hushed silence. Isca regarded her sternly but not without pity: it was the kind of memory one would try to suppress. "Do you not remember?"  
  
Freya guessed his meaning. "You don't know . . ." the vampire tilted his head questioningly. "He was resurrected." A murmur that spoke at once of excitement, disbelief and long-lost hope circulated amongst the assembled. "Although he is not quite as you knew him." Freya added hastily.  
  
Quickly rising to his feet, Isca held out a claw towards her, his manner abrupt. "Let's take a walk."  
  
Freya cast a glance about at the rest of the group who were regarding her in fervent anticipation. She twitched her eyebrows at him in an unspoken question.  
  
Annoyed at her lack of understanding, Isca knelt beside her, his manner urgent. "If you are wrong about this . . ."  
  
It became immediately apparent to Freya that he was endeavouring to keep his men from false optimism, so she nodded agreement and rose quickly to accompany him into the depths of the forest. Even here it was not completely dark, as the moonlight filtering through the dense canopy of leaves was bright enough to trace a delicate silver path before their wandering feet.  
  
The vampire listened as she outlined Raziel's current condition, skimming over details and sticking to a vague description of a blue-skinned demon with tattered wings. Isca's eyes widened in recognition of the verbal portrait she painted.  
  
"We saw him at the Pillars just a few days ago." His voiced was hushed with awe. "He sensed he was being watched and so we retreated and left him alone. We had no quarrel with him - didn't even know what he was . . ." His voice trailed off.  
  
Isca was silent for a long while, her words evidently having given him pause for thought. She cast a sidelong glance at his pensive profile. While it was true that vampires never truly aged, the creature striding at her side was much changed from the excitable fledgling she'd encountered but a few months ago. Although his face would ever be that of a youth not much younger than she, the experiences of what for him had constituted nearly fifty years were carved ineradicably into his countenance. The features, so close to human when they'd last met, had by degrees taken on the inherent traits of his vampire heritage; the cheekbones more pronounced, the lips darker, the skin paler, and the eyes a touch closer to that elusive shade of gold. Gone was the aspect of youthful exuberance, and in its place rested a seasoned resolve, a formidable potency which held its own dark magnetism.  
  
Turning her mind to the matters at hand with not a little effort, Freya now sought to find out where exactly in Nosgoth's complicated time-stream they had landed. "Does Janos Audron yet live in this time?"  
  
"I believe so. Why?"  
  
Indecision delayed her response. She had seen what happened when Kain messed with the timeline and didn't relish adding any more havoc to Nosgoth's already uncertain future. On the other hand, her omission of action last time around hadn't gone too well either. She decided to tell Isca what she knew, at the same time swearing him to secrecy. Wisely, she omitted any mention of the game, instead leaving the vampire to draw his own inference about Earth having mythology pertaining to Nosgoth.  
  
"You're from another world? That explains a lot." Freya feigned offence at his offhand remark, softened as it was by his roguish grin.  
  
Eventually, Isca broke the companionable silence with a question Freya had been praying he wouldn't ask. "If you knew what would happen, why didn't you tell Raziel?"  
  
The woman looked downcast. "I had no idea the transformation would be so quick - I thought there's be some warning."  
  
Isca nodded understanding. "There usually is. The metamorphic process is normally a matter of days, not hours. Turel forced it." Freya's eyes widened. This was new. "It was one of the snippets of information he imparted to me. . ." Isca's eyes darkened as the harrowing memories returned, and his lips closed firmly, shutting out the memory.  
  
Sensing the vampire's reluctance to elaborate on that particular point, Freya changed the subject. "Isca, I'm dying to know - what did happen to Antaris?"  
  
The very thought brought an irreverent smile to the vampire's chiselled features. His mood lightened as he recounted the story in its full gory details, revelling in the disgusted faces his companion was making. At long length, his story done and dawn fast approaching, they turned their steps reluctantly in the direction of the camp, only to find to Freya's dismay that her dinner had been cremated. 


	4. Sarafan

A sharp dig in the ribs forced Freya to roll sideways with a groan - surely it was far too early to be thinking about getting up. As her relaxing body settled back to its former position, another painful jab made her open her eyes in annoyance. She bit down on the acerbic comment she'd been about to make as she recognised her tormentor for a protruding root. Feeling a little sheepish, and undeniably awake now, she glanced about to check her surroundings. The ancient forest snaked off in every direction, diffuse sunlight bathing the scene in a fresh emerald hue. Over to her right sat the group of vampires in whose company she'd found herself the previous night. Suddenly suspicious, she reached up and checked her neck. Intact. The act soon brought another fact to her attention: sometime during the night, she'd been covered with a warm red cloak. A little ashamed at her own mistrust, Freya rose to join the circle.  
  
She found the Razielim still discussing their recent revelation and making plans for a thorough search for their long-lost Lord. Isca nodded a greeting to her, accepting the return of his folded cloak with a suave smile. As her eyes roved over the assembled group, Freya found herself wondering anew at her change in circumstances; one minute awaiting the bailiffs, and the next sharing a camp with two score Vampire warriors. Recent events notwithstanding, she harboured no illusions about the possibility of these men maintaining a stable temperament; she was fully aware that these were vicious, deadly killers - not to be trifled with. The woman consoled herself with the fact that they were at least less likely to kill her than the local undead, more so since she'd apologised for killing their advance scout the night before - Isca had eased her conscience by confiding that he'd never liked the man anyway. Overall, she viewed her new situation as an improvement.  
  
Much to the Vampires' delight, Freya was able to make some helpful suggestions as to where they might next look for Raziel. She didn't much relish the thought of wandering through the underground chambers that linked the Elder God's lair with the swamp, so she advised her companions that sooner or later, the Soul Reaver would be heading for Janos Audron's Aerie, and later to the Sarafan Stronghold. With the former destination in mind, they broke camp. Isca had by now exchanged his massive suit of armour for the more familiar Clan regalia, and Freya soon found an opening in the conversation to quiz him on his change of protective clothing.  
  
"We were expecting trouble last night - hence the demon helm: the more imposing the armour, the more intimidated the Sarafan." replied Isca sagely.  
  
An Elite at his side snorted derisively. "Ha! Don't let him fool you - he's not wearing it today because he likes to show off his muscles in female company."  
  
Isca afforded his subordinate a quelling look. "Do you want advance scout duties tonight?"  
  
Freya's face lit up with a mischievous grin. "Touched a nerve?"  
  
Isca looked hurt. Unable to contain herself any longer, Freya burst out laughing and punched him on the arm in jest. Seeing the funny side at last, the vampire's face broke into a broad smile as he clapped the woman on the back, an action which sent her stumbling forward several paces, bent double. She forced a laugh between gritted teeth, her eyes riveted on a most interesting shrub at the side of the track until the grimace was gone from her face. The Razielim mood was light as they travelled along - they were off to find their Lord, they had someone in their midst with inside information, and the path ahead was bright and clear.  
  
Presently, the track they were following curved around to lead into a large clearing, bisected by a babbling stream and a half-tumbled bridge. The rest of the scene brought the group of out-of-time vampires to a dead halt. At irregular intervals throughout the grassy dell, long poles had been erected, their sharpened points reddened with gore. Upon almost every shaft in the entire clearing was impaled a wretched, hapless vampire corpse, the agonised expressions on those faces visible to the revolted group providing clear evidence of the circumstances of their demise. The ground was a mire of sanguine sludge. The first sign of trouble to reach Freya's senses was the familiar swishing rasp of numerous swords leaving their scabbards - the vampires were evidently on the alert, although the cause of their disquiet was not yet visible to the naked eye. Abruptly, as though summoned, the clearing teemed with Sarafan warriors, accompanied by the vicious torpedoes of bristling fur that were the humans' vampire- hunting dogs.  
  
"Stand fast!" Came the cry of the Sarafan leader, "They are too few to prevail against us."  
  
Isca's face twisted into a malevolent grin as he regarded this new enemy with predatory amusement. This human's miscalculation would be his last. Keeping to the Clan trait of maintaining silence in attack to unnerve human opponents, the Razielim rushed them.  
  
The vampires of this time were as far removed from their future cousins as housecats from lions, the humans of the time having little difficulty in keeping them under control. It was because of this preconception that this first group of Sarafan were ill-prepared for the sheer ferocity of the beings that beset them. These huge, malevolent beasts bore down on them without so much as a battle cry, barely pausing in their stride as man after man was cut down in fountains of crimson and scarlet. Sated with the impersonal approach, Isca grabbed a nearby woman, armed and armoured as her male counterparts, and hefted her from the ground by his grip on her breastplate. Having never encountered a creature of such palpable power before, the Sarafan's sword slipped from her limp fingers as she shook her head in denial of the sight before her. Anon, she began an impassioned plea for her life, the note in her voice eliciting a gradual softening of the vampire's scowl. Relieved that her words were having some effect, the woman continued, her hand seeking out that of her captor in an attempt to placate him further. Tiring of the game, Isca plunged his sword straight through the Sarafan mare's chest, watching in satisfaction as thick gouts of blood marred her uncomprehending expression. Dropping the body to the ground, he twisted the weapon as he retrieved it to seal the female's fate. The act completed, his sweeping gaze sought his comrades and found to his approval that they were deriving as much pleasure from this battle as he.  
  
Freya meanwhile had backed up against one of the still-standing pillars that supported the remains of the bridge, unprepared for this particular scenario. She had never in her life killed another human being, and although - had circumstances allowed - she would have ended Antaris' life in an instant, the Sarafan Lord had been trying to kill her. Repeatedly. These Sarafan on the other hand had done nothing to her, so for the moment she contented herself in watching the battle royal that was being enacted before her. Although she had faced Vampire armies many times as the Sarafan P'ramma, the tumultuous rush of combat often meant that one had no time to focus on anything other than one's own opponent, and the chance to see these engines of destruction in action when her own life wasn't at stake was too good to miss.  
  
Everywhere she looked she saw scenes of raw carnage as the Razielim engaged these fanatical warriors with a bloodlust that suggested it had been some time since they fed. She observed closely as a Sarafan who had managed to force his adversary's head beneath the rushing waters of the stream backed off in horror as the vampire re-emerged, impossibly unscathed by the treatment. The man retreated further as the demon rose swiftly before him in bare-fanged amusement, a clean side-swipe of lethal talons separating the human from his internal organs. The Sarafan leader, whose initial pompous proclamation had been proven so very inaccurate was running in shameless fear from an Elite guard, the latter's current weapon of choice an armoured Sarafan limb. The vampire was hard pressed to contain his mirth.  
  
Suddenly, something moved on the edge of Freya's field of vision, causing her to drop her hand to the hilt of her katana in preparation. Two Sarafan were sneaking up on her from behind the bridge. They flanked her, weapons at the ready, pausing to exchange a few words before attacking.  
  
"This one's too good to join in the fight." scoffed one.  
  
"Whassamatter, pretty, don't want to get blood on your nice clothes?" added the other.  
  
Glancing from one sneering face to another in alarm, Freya explained, "I'm human."  
  
The derisive smiles that had marked the men's attitudes vanished sharply, to be replaced by a look of hatred far more concentrated than any they had afforded the vampires.  
  
"Vampire-loving scum!" yelled one. As the two began a vicious, frenzied attack, Freya belatedly remembered that the Sarafan from this time were, if anything, even more mindlessly zealous than those with whom she had served.  
  
"Your kind - are worse than the monsters themselves - it's because of you - that these unholy parasites - lay waste to the land!" cried the other, his words punctuated by the maniacal blows he was aiming at her head.  
  
Freya sighed resignedly. So much for humanity.  
  
Isca turned as his latest conquest fell writhing into the dirt at his feet, just in time to see the two Sarafan corner and attack Freya. A snarl curled his lip as he set off for the bridge at a loping run, wondering why the woman had allowed them to get so close. Keenly aware that if they lost her now, they'd lose their best chance at tracking down Raziel, the vampire resolved to have a few words with her when the fighting was done. If she survived.  
  
The vampire's concern was misplaced. Having decided to fight for her life, the two young zealots were no match for Freya's considerable and well- practised skills. Using a leg sweep to knock the first off his feet, she kicked the sword from his hand, timing her next movement carefully to simultaneously duck his companion's awkward slice at her neck and pick up the discarded weapon. Thus armed, she thrust both blades into their respective abdomens with a satisfying crunch. Freya watched sadly as the still-upright warrior slid off the end of her katana with a bubbling moan. So it began. She was now a murderer.  
  
The fight over, Isca motioned to his men to continue scouting ahead, drawing Freya to one side of the clearing as he did so. Still a little numb from the realisation of what she had done, Freya allowed herself to be led beneath the shadow of the ruined bridge. Isca waited until her attention was focused on him once more before he began.  
  
"You hesitated." He stated in level tones.  
  
"I had a slight moral dilemma about killing other human beings." retorted Freya. "Don't worry - I'm over it now."  
  
"Your hesitancy almost cost you your life."  
  
"I'll be more careful." She moved to follow the others into the clearing, but found her path blocked by Isca's unyielding form. "What is it now?" she asked in exasperation.  
  
"You could be harder to kill."  
  
Interpreting the subtle implication, Freya set her jaw and shook her head in mute refusal. Isca tried another tack.  
  
"I cannot guarantee your continued safety in our company." She met his steady gaze, uncertainty furrowing her brow. "When the Thirst comes, it won't matter that you've fought at their side. All they will see is a meal on legs. "  
  
"They?" queried the woman.  
  
"We." amended the vampire. "Consider it," he added gravely before turning to follow his Clan from the clearing.  
  
With a distinct feeling that time was running out, Freya followed the departing Vampire.  
  
This did not bode well. 


	5. Old Friends, New Enemies

Grix was most displeased with his current situation. As elected leader of the rapidly diminishing Vampire forces, he did not expect to be summoned to such squalid surroundings at the peak of his resting period. He tapped his booted foot in impatience as the bowing, scraping serf who had accompanied him enjoined him to wait while he went to seek his master. Grix sighed and glanced impatiently around the interior of the slum, somehow managing, even when viewing the ceiling, to look down his long, aquiline nose at everything. Setting foot in the swamp was degrading enough - only the lowliest of his breed would spend any length of time in the dank atmosphere of the parasite-ridden marsh - but to be forced to enter one of the slime- dripping, tumbledown structures that rose like blemishes throughout large areas of the spreading fen was an outright insult. If it hadn't been for the sigil the filthy little wretch had flashed before his eyes, he would probably have eaten him for breakfast.  
  
Presently, the affronted vampire became aware that he was not alone in the room. Grix pivoted swiftly, his lean frame and light gait belying the redoubtable power concealed within. His cold, grey eyes swept from mouldy wall to cracked pavestone, no detail escaping his all-encompassing gaze, until it came to rest on a pair of cloven feet lit by the glimmer of the torch in the serf's hand. Grix's gaze was drawn slowly upwards, taking in a long white robe, bare muscular arms shaded in azure tones, a thick golden necklace and black-feathered wings until his disbelieving eyes met those of none other than Janos Audron himself. The vampire fell to his knees in fervent adulation, his shell-shocked brain unable to give voice to any other phrase than:  
  
"We feared the worst, my Lord."  
  
Janos smiled beatifically down at the man who knelt before him, mildly amused that the creature's head, so recently held aloft in sneering disdain, was now bowed in unquestioning worship at his feet.  
  
"Arise, my son." said Janos, "I have called you here for a reason."  
  
Grix got unsteadily to his feet, and, facing his Lord in all seriousness he said, "Had you asked, we would have attempted to reach the Aerie."  
  
Janos shook his head with a smile, knowing as well as Grix that such an act would have amounted to nothing more than merciless death at the hands of the Sarafan who, even now, laid siege to his retreat.  
  
"I would never ask for such a meaningless sacrifice." advised the Ancient gravely.  
  
Grix nodded in grateful acceptance of his master's generosity. "What is it you wish of us, Lord?"  
  
Janos' expression became somewhat secretive. "A child has been born in a nearby town. Bring him to me."  
  
Grix was perplexed "You wish a human child, Lord?"  
  
"The fate of Vampirekind rests on his shoulders."  
  
Not wishing to question his elder's superior wisdom, Grix simply asked, "Who is this child?"  
  
It seemed to the vampire as he asked this question that the room began to darken, the wan yellow light afforded by the flickering torch growing almost imperceptibly weaker with each passing moment. He looked back at Janos to see the Elder's face contorted in a most unexpected expression. As quickly as the look had appeared, it was gone; the light resumed its normal brilliance, and Janos was once more gracing him with a benign smile. Grix turned tail and stalked proudly from the room, infused with the glory of his mission, and the name of the child embedded deeply in his mind. As he departed, the blue-skinned creature allowed free reign to the snarl it had suppressed, darkling eyes flaring briefly with an unnatural light.  
  
Afternoon drew its lazy shadows in shades of maroon and tan, the scurry and chatter of Nosgoth's prolific fauna increasing as the last few hours of day ticked their finite seconds away. The darkening of the air saw the emergence of swarms of the lurid green fireflies that were so characteristic of this particular area, swirling in mysterious order about every wooded bole and rocky spar. Dusk was on the approach, and as the sun's moribund rays limned the clothing of the band of travellers in a hazy cinnabar aura, one of their number was silently dreading its departure and the consequences of the oncoming dark. On the whole, however, the Razielim were back in good spirits. This day had seen not only an easy victory against their oldest and gravest enemies, but also a good feed, which always improved their disposition. Despite her earlier misgivings, Freya was starting to feel a little more at ease as the evening wore on and the mood remained light-hearted. Isca had not mentioned his proposition a second time, and the woman was beginning to think that maybe she'd be safe as long as her travelling companions were kept well-fed. She'd also just come to the decision that she was not going to make any more wisecracks in front of Isca - his hearty back-claps were only just short of spine- shattering - when the entire party came to an unexpected halt. Unable to see the cause of their abrupt stop over the massive bulk of the Elite guard preceding her, Freya twitched her eyebrows at her neighbour, who was a foot taller than her, in a patent request for information.  
  
"Vampires," he hissed by way of response.  
  
Isca made his way to the front, a path opening automatically for him as he strode forward, every inch the confident, martial leader. This first encounter with their cousins of the past was crucial; if Isca could win their trust and co-operation, they could be a great asset to both his quests. The Razielim's penetrating gaze locked onto that of the foremost vampire, keeping his stance relaxed and his hands well away from his weaponry.  
  
"Greetings, friend."  
  
The response was stony silence, shortly followed by the repetitive metallic sliding sound that signalled the drawing of several blades.  
  
Isca maintained the eye contact despite a powerful temptation to glance at his men to gauge their readiness. He decided to move to more obvious ground.  
  
"We are brethren."  
  
Grix eyed the half-dressed dandies with open malice: that they should so overtly flaunt their identities was quite beyond his understanding. The Vampire struggle for survival in these beleaguered times was difficult enough without fools like these drawing attention to the fact that they were undead. He made his disgust at Isca's statement known.  
  
"We claim no kinship with the likes of you!"  
  
Isca held his temper despite the filthy looks the malnourished vampire was affording him. "There is no need for us to be enemies," he continued, endeavouring to keep his tone level. "The Sarafan play that role well enough."  
  
Grix was in no mood to be placated: he was on a sacred mission, and every second he tarried here meant a delay in the execution of Janos' edict.  
  
"Get out of our way or die where you stand."  
  
Initially troubled by the vampire's refusal to accept the Razielim as kin, this skinny wretch's continued hostility was starting to grate on Isca's nerves. He took a few steps forward, a movement that brought him to within feet of the opposing group's leader, and stared down into his drawn, bloodless face with firm intent.  
  
"You would do well not to make enemies of us," he advised in a tone so low it bordered on a growl. The creature's retaliation was so swift it caught Isca off-balance, forcing him to adopt a defensive posture instead of his preferred offensive stance. As their swords clashed with a resounding clang, the two parties, separated by hundreds of years of vampiric evolution, surged forward to bridge the time-span with a conflict of timeless ferocity.  
  
Freya, situated in the middle of the crowd was unavoidably borne along with the forward charge. She was therefore glad when the guards before her split off to either side so she could get a clear view of these new adversaries, most of whom, unlike the undead she'd become accustomed to, looked badly in need of feeding. With this disconcerting thought in mind, she threw herself into the fight, revelling for the first time in months in a conscience-free gorefest. Those first breathless seconds of skirmish brought back golden memories of glorious days fighting for territory and honour on the battlefields of Nosgoth's far-flung future, and although she now travelled - and she was not unaware of the irony - with the very creatures she'd fought and occasionally killed, still it felt good to be vanquishing undead enemies once again.  
  
Grix had to hand it to this narcissistic fop, he knew how to handle a sword. His opinion of his adversary rising with each passing moment, the vampire almost wished he had time to finish the duel properly - however, there were more pressing matters at hand. He waited until his opponent's next forward thrust forced him to parry to his left, and used the opportunity to reach into his belt pouch and withdraw a pinch of silver powder. With an almost apologetic look, he threw the substance straight at Isca's eyes. As the vampire backed off with a bellow of pain, momentarily blinded, Grix motioned to two of his companions to take his place while he made good his escape. This underhand manoeuvre did not go unnoticed, and Freya, who was separated from the scene by a matter of a few metres, shoved her latest antagonist away as she made a dash for Isca's side. The woman's eyes widened in horror as Isca sank to one knee, the damage was evidently severe - but worse still, the two vampires who had taken Grix's place had raised their weapons in preparation for the strike. Freya did not relish the thought of being stuck in this time without him: although because of his very nature she would never be completely safe in his company, he was at least less likely to kill her than these new foes. It was hence a heartily relieved woman who witnessed the creature behind Isca go down with a Razielim sword protruding from his skull.  
  
Isca, his vision a morass of blurred images tinged with blooming rosettes of pain, knelt on the battlefield, sword all but forgotten in his loose- clawed grasp. He was dimly aware that someone had approached and stood before him now, shadow elongating as the its owner stretched upwards for the killing blow. It never came. The vampire felt fresh blood splash his face as a length of steel pierced the heart of his attacker, and a moment later, warm hands were gripping his arm, urging him to his feet. His vision clearing slowly, he managed by a process of elimination to deduce that it was Freya who stood at his side, querying him on the state of his eyes while keeping her own on the surrounding fray. A few more forceful blinks, and his eyesight returned to a semblance of normal, the speedy recovery due as much to the splatter of vampire blood that had connected with his face as his own inherent healing abilities.  
  
Though the conflicting sides' numbers were still more or less even, Freya observed that the Razielim had fallen into the defensive combat pattern that had made them such a nuisance to fight when she'd led the Sarafan. They had grouped together in twos and threes, back to back, each watching out for the others' weaknesses, and forming a stronger, more impenetrable unit as they did so. Finding herself closest to Isca, and mindful that she wanted to keep an eye on him, she adopted the same approach, only then realising what a great asset this style of fighting was. Every time the enemy tried to press an attack, lunging forwards singly or en masse, they were met by an impassable wall that covered the full 360 degrees of the couple's periphery. The pair were well-matched in battle; Freya's speed, agility and outlandish fighting style were perfectly complemented by Isca's great reach, considerable skill and not insignificant measure of pure brute strength - it soon became apparent that nothing could touch them.  
  
Finally realising the futility of attacking these staunchly defended units, the vampire troops began to cut a retreat. Their task was complete and there was nothing to be gained by throwing themselves repeatedly at the bristling protective walls the Razielim had erected. Their leader had passed on to complete his errand, and if all went according to plan, the child named Kain would soon be in their hands. 


	6. Grix

The city of Coorhagen, situated on a low-lying plain and surrounded on three sides by dense forest, epitomised one of Nosgoth's latest and greatest achievements: civilization. From the well-planned layout of the rigidly straight streets to the massive metal tanks that provided running water to the city's fortunate, its exterior boasted a picture of progress and prosperity. However, every great success has its by-products, and Coorhagen was no exception: the rat-infested slums were rife with the detritus of human society, cutpurses and beggars lurked on every corner, lives were bought and sold at the exchange of a gold coin, and all types of contraband were passed freely from hand to hand. It was onto this scene of decay that Grix now descended, his highly sensitive nostrils offended by the foul stench of rotting vegetables and diseased meat. Despite his growing hunger, the vampire vowed he would never stoop to dining in such sordid quarters.  
  
Grix was highly resentful of the fact that he had been forced to enter the city by means of its waste pipes, but the wealth and importance of the inhabitants had led to a slight overabundance of sentry guards, especially during the night watch. Fastidiously brushing the remnants of ordure and cabbage-mould from his previously immaculate black suit, the vampire made his way with all possible haste out of the slums and into the well-lit quarters inhabited by Nosgoth's more prosperous caste. As his wiry form moved stealthily into the central square, the difference between this quarter and the slums he had just vacated became painfully clear. Marble fountains tinkled tunefully from their hiding places amidst lush greenery and brightly-coloured flowerbeds, and here the air was filled with a heady perfume that assailed the vampire's keen senses, conjuring images of corpulent merchants and buxom daughters. Grix licked his lips - he loved rich people.  
  
A short walk and a brief, bloody interrogation later, the vampire found himself outside a grand manor house, the walls of which, according to the revered Ancient, housed a most valuable child. Dropping the subterfuge now his destination had been reached, Grix quickly dispatched the watchman where he sat cleaning his nails in the broad entryway, his strangled scream ending with a moist splat as the vampire parted his head from his neck. Kicking the corpse aside when it refused to fall down (the vampire considered this a personal affront), he proceeded to the main door. Judging by the size of the house, the family was quite influential, and were therefore likely to have several servants living on the premises: Grix paused to cross his fingers in the hope that at least some of them would be buxom before wrenching the door from its hinges and embarking upon his killing spree.  
  
At long last, the man of the house impaled on one sharp-nailed hand, Grix reached the nursery where the child Kain slept, all unknowing of the destiny the Fates had written for him, nor the unpredicted change of course his fortune was about to take.  
  
"This is him?" Grix asked. It was as much a rhetorical question as a query to the dying male who dangled from his outstretched arm.  
  
"Please," gurgled the man, "Don't hurt him - allow the child to live and you may have my fortune." Seeing the Vampire's impassive air, he added, not without difficulty since Grix' claw-like fingers had penetrated the flesh either side of his spine, "Take my house, my lands, anything you wish - but spare my bloodline, I beg you."  
  
The vampire appeared thoughtful for a moment, a moment later deigning to respond: "I have no intention of killing him, mortal. What fate my master has in store for him I do not know. But I do know this. . ." turning to the human with a look of sheer wickedness, he said, "He is beyond your help now. You, his own father can do nothing to prevent his falling into Vampire hands - if it be his fate to survive, I will make sure I tell him how feeble were your attempts at saving his life."  
  
With the practised ease of one accustomed to victory, Grix closed his hand into a fist, relishing the look of anguish on the man's face and observing closely as it transmuted from mental distress to physical agony. With a final wrench, he tore out that portion of the human's spine enclosed within his hand, his look of wild glee quickly returning to his usual carefully schooled mask of disdain. As he gathered up the infant, choosing to carry the entire cot rather than be seen with a babe in his arms, he found his thoughts turning unwanted to the day's battle. These musings were to plague the rest of his journey from Coorhagen to the Termagent Swamp: he had never seen the like of the creatures he had fought this day, and Grix found himself wondering idly if they were foreigners from the lands across the sea. Wherever their point of origin, they certainly looked well-fed, if a little too vainglorious to merit his full approval. What he wouldn't give for a chance to give that strutting leader of theirs a proper lesson in swordplay! That the match would have been tough he had no doubt, but it had been evident to Grix from the outset that the young warrior was many years his junior, and in spite of his obvious strength and skill, enthusiasm was just no match for experience.  
  
He resolved to ask the omniscient Janos about these strangers.  
  
*  
  
A rowdy cheer arose from the thirty or so Razielim warriors who stood grouped in their protective circles at random points across the dusty field. The cowardly retreat of their kindred was accompanied by a round of uncomplimentary remarks and a variety of unseemly gestures from the Clan warriors, some of the more boisterous of whom had gone so far as to bare parts of their anatomy in an extra parting gesture of derision. Freya, still elated from her recent experience, joined in the cat-calls with the rest, although she wisely suppressed any temptation to mimic the rest of the insulting actions. A movement to her left warned her that Isca was on the move, and, sensing from his grin that one of his trademark spine- shakers was in the offing, she deftly intercepted his hand and shook it pointedly, hoping to forestall any unintentional physical harm.  
  
"We'll have to remember that manoeuvre next time we're cornered," began Isca, his expression one of bemused approval.  
  
"It certainly seemed to do the trick," agreed Freya, who had been as surprised as he that their vastly differing combat styles should prove the perfect foil for each other.  
  
"Although," continued the vampire, wiping the blood from his blade, "You'll understand if I forego the pleasure when I get the chance to engage that bastard of a leader of theirs in single combat."  
  
A little concerned at his tone, Freya glanced at her companion to see that his expression was dark and brooding; the enemy leader's devious trick had seemingly constituted a heavy blow to Isca's pride. Aware that revenge was a dangerous motive, she attempted to take his mind off his recent failed duel.  
  
Taking him by the arm, she tugged him forwards in their original direction, saying, "The night is still young, Isca. We can put a few more miles beneath our feet tonight and be that much closer to our goal by morning." Seeing that his expression was still despondent, she added, "You'll get your chance."  
  
Seemingly cheered by her words, the vampire nodded assent and threw a companionable arm about her shoulders as he gave the order to move on. Freya's knees buckled under the weight.  
  
A gibbous moon searched out the canyon with tentative fingers, her wan light barely able to penetrate steep walls of the gorge. The Razielim, still rambunctious after what they saw as an easy conquest, were a far cry from their usual stealthy selves as they traversed the moonlit path. It was partly due to this unusual level of noise that no-one noticed the passing of a sable shadow at the top of the gorge. It overtook the group in moments, its footfalls silent and its face hidden in the depths of a voluminous hood, even the burden it carried was uncommonly quiet for its age. A hundred feet below on the floor of the valley, Isca was busy regaling his human companion with tales of his life as a fledgling, concentrating particularly on some of the more ridiculous and revolting things he had done in the first few years of his vampiric unlife. It was plain from the woman's expression that she didn't believe half of it.  
  
"You ate it?" asked Freya, her face undecided as to whether it was displaying disbelief or amused disgust.  
  
Isca grinned. "I was still young - I didn't know you weren't supposed to chew."  
  
A sound from behind cut across the laughter, the thunderous approach of galloping hooves loud enough to catch their attention even over the hubbub. The Razielim mood, so recently one of laid-back merriment was instantly transformed into one of aggression as swords snicked from their sheaths in preparation to defend against whosoever might emerge from the shadows. It was a foregone conclusion that the riders would be unkindly disposed towards them - they had met nothing but opposition since they arrived. These Sarafan would not disappoint them. Twenty mounted knights cantered around the corner, torch-holders flanking each side of the group, the foremost rider skidding to a halt as the black-clad undead came into view.  
  
"To arms, men - we've found the dogs!"  
  
Assuming that this attack was a retaliation for their earlier massacre in the clearing, Isca smiled openly - these men would fare no better than their cohorts, for all that they were mounted and carried lances. He gripped the hilt of his sword in anticipation: a violent, bloody victory over the Sarafan would go some way towards restoring a measure of his wounded pride.  
  
"Give us the child, undead, and your deaths will be swift." Called the officer at the head of the pack.  
  
The vampires cast puzzled glances at each other, shortly shrugging off the irrelevant demand to face their nemeses with eager growls.  
  
The officer's gaze fell on Freya, and, recognising her as human he asked, "Have you no shame? To assist in the stealing of a child from its parents' loving care? What sort of woman are you?"  
  
Freya, resentful of the implications, retorted, "We've stolen nothing, Sarafan." Oh, but it felt good to use the word as an insult at last.  
  
"Liar! The child Kain was taken by Vampire hands - the evidence is irrefutable!" The Sarafan officer, fired by the zealousness of his own speech, soon gave the order to charge.  
  
The Sarafan surged forward, lances outstretched before them, their visions of an easy win fading by the second as it became clear that these vampires would not go quietly into death's cold embrace. A lightning-fast counter- charge sent a number of the Razielim over the top of the Sarafan lances, where they landed with unerring precision on the saddles of their opponents' steeds, bearing their enemies to the ground with the weight of their attack. Isca had let loose his pent-up anger, and was even now wreaking havoc among the dismounted knights, cleaving through armour left and right with wide sweeps of his keen-edged blade.  
  
Freya stood incongruously still in the midst of the scuffle, the officer's words ringing in her head. An as-yet-unformed idea sent her hesitantly in Isca's direction, approaching him with considerable caution so as not to be caught by one of his brutal backslashes. Isca, satisfied that his weapon had seen its fair share of bloodletting, sheathed the blade in favour of tooth and claw, grabbing a nearby knight and wrenching off his helmet in preparation for the strike. He paused, fangs inches from the ill-fated man's throat as he felt an insistent tugging at his arm. He swivelled his eyes to the right to see that Freya had a firm grip on his leather vambrace and was shaking his forearm urgently in an attempt to get his attention.  
  
"This doesn't happen."  
  
Isca, as perplexed by the meaningless phrase she had uttered as her choice of moments to annoy him, shot a loaded glance from her face to the knight's neck and back again, patently asking to be allowed to continue with his meal.  
  
"Isca, please - I need to talk to you."  
  
The vampire was torn between the exposed jugular barely a hand's breadth below his open mouth, and curiosity as to what had prompted the woman to disturb him mid-feed, an act which would have meant instant death for any other human. Heartily confounded at his own actions, Isca took one more longing look at the Sarafan's neck before throwing him aside in a fit of pique and following Freya to the relative peace at the rear of the Razielim guard.  
  
"This had better be worth it," warned the vampire in a low growl.  
  
"Kain is not kidnapped by vampires."  
  
As much confused by her choice of tense the continued incomprehensibility of her words, Isca raised a brow in query.  
  
"This isn't part of the g . . . the legend." Freya slipped the amendment in just in time, only to give voice to a heavy sigh - the vampire still looked blank. "Someone is messing with the timeline, Isca. They've taken Kain - who knows what mayhem they could wreak on the path of history if they change his future."  
  
"I could care less for Kain's fate." the vampire shot back. "In case you had forgotten, it was he who gave the order for Raziel's execution. We owe him no further loyalty."  
  
Appalled by the vampire's lack of vision, Freya stated coldly, "If Kain is killed here and now, he will never gather an army of Vampire Lieutenants, which means that you and all your men . . ."  
  
". . .Will never have existed." Finished Isca in a whisper, the true horror of the consequences of manipulating the time-stream becoming clear to him at last. He looked up, decision making him resolute once more. "We need to find the vampire who stole the child."  
  
Their eyes met as pieces of the puzzle fell into place and Isca gave voice to the conclusion they had both reached.  
  
"That vampire leader. . ."  
  
Minds reeling with temporal conundrums, they hastened back to the scene of combat which had by now become one of complete carnage, the outnumbered Sarafan having long since fallen to Razielim blades.  
  
Isca cast a petulant glance at Freya before accusing her of spoiling his dinner.  
  



	7. Deceit

Moonlight reflected from the moist, glistening corpses of twenty Sarafan warriors, the light ruddied by the surfeit of spilled blood that still pooled in the canyon's pitted surfaces. Here and there the victors of the contest were extracting trophies from the fallen, some of which were more grisly than Freya cared to contemplate. Seemingly dismayed at the bloodbath, the woman shook her head and tutted quietly.  
  


Isca shot a cold glance in her direction. "You don't approve? It's a little late to be getting a sense of morality."  
  
She gave him an annoyed stare. "If they'd left even one alive we could have questioned him about the creature who stole Kain. Bloody trigger- happy vampires." She added in a low mutter.  
  
"The Sarafan were heading in the same direction we were - stands to reason they were following the true abductor." Was Isca's matter-of-fact response before he gathered the company together to move off. Despite the apparent logic of Isca's deduction, the night wore on and no sign of their quarry was found by their advance scouts. Freya began to fret.  
  
"Isca - we have no idea what path he might have taken. He could be twenty miles east or west of here by now, and I don't recognise this place well enough to hazard a guess as to where he might have gone."  
  
The vampire nodded thoughtfully, turning his attention to a nearby farmhouse, in whose window a night light still burned. Turning abruptly, he walked boldly up to the wooden porch and began to hammer on the door.  
  
"What are you doing?" hissed Freya.  
  
"Asking for directions." replied he with a hint of sarcasm. As the door swung hesitantly open, the vampire grabbed the inhabitant, a frightened old man in a nightshirt and floppy bobble cap, by his collar, making a polite but firm request for a map.  
  
The old man stared at the pale-skinned long-fanged warrior in slack-jawed terror and remained silent, apparently deprived of the power of speech. With an impatient sigh, Isca made a signal to the nearest of his men, who slipped past the two at the door to conduct a swift search of the interior. He reappeared a moment later, burdened with a struggling young woman, ostensibly the farmer's daughter. He allowed the man to take in the sight of the leering immortal toying with his offspring before repeating the question, slowly and clearly so that even this vacuous dullard would understand.  
  
"Do - you - have - a - map?"  
  
It seemed the cogs were finally turning. The old man nodded shakily, indicating a chest in the corner of the room next to the fire. Turning his chilling gaze on the farmer once again, Isca said, in a voice that made Freya intensely glad the command wasn't aimed at her, "Go."  
  
The farmer needed no second invitation. Without so much as a backwards glance, he tore out of the house with a speed that would have made him the envy of many a younger man, and threw himself unhesitatingly into the relative safety of the wolf-haunted forest.  
  
"Uh . . . Isca." Freya indicated with a jerk of her thumb the young woman who was yet in the grasp of the Razielim warrior, the latter taking great amusement in baring his teeth at the terrified girl. Shaking his head again in wonder at his willingness to accede to the woman's whims, Isca gave the order for her release. The girl tore herself free from her captor's relaxed grip, and, pausing only to give Freya one utterly confounded stare, followed her father to freedom.  
  
Having temporarily availed themselves of the comforts of the farmhouse, Freya and Isca took their seats at the scrubbed wooden table to examine the map which, true to the old man's words, had been buried in the chest. Isca's plan at this point was twofold: first to see if there was any location that looked likely to house a Vampire coven, and second to see if Freya recognised any of the sites, or the roads that might lead them to their ultimate destination. Huddled together over the faded parchment, Freya told him all she knew.  
  
"We can't take this path - you'd need the Soul Reaver to open the gate." She waved aside his unspoken question and continued. "We could make our way through here - although there are a few cliffs to scale and a large number of Sarafan in the way. Oh, and a waterfall."  
  
Hearing no response from her companion, Freya turned to read his expression, only to find that his face was mere inches from hers, his look one of intense curiosity. She wasn't at all sure she wanted him in such close proximity after the previous day's proposition - not to mention tonight's comment about her making him miss dinner, so she used the excuse of sitting back in her chair to put some distance between them.  
  
She stretched out her legs with a sigh. "It's been a long time since I looked at a map of Nosgoth. I hope my memory's up to the task." A glance in the vampire's direction showed he was still looking at her with an almost predatory fascination, which at last encouraged her to voice the concern that was eating at her mind and nerves on a daily basis.  
  
"Isca . . . not that I would want it any other way, but . . . what's keeping me alive?"  
  
Isca was silent for a moment before giving his answer. "You tried to save Raziel. Your attempt, albeit somewhat belated, has earned you a temporary reprieve." He examined his claws and Freya's attention returned to the map, more or less placated by his answer and not wishing to pursue the matter further. Her gaze shot to his face again in alarm as one cold, smooth claw curved unexpectedly around her neck. Freya's hand gripped his wrist forcefully, her expression one of anger and indignation. Drawing her closer by his grip on her neck, he added in a low voice:  
  
"For the moment, you are our best chance of tracking him down - I will respect your wishes to ensure your continued co-operation. But rest assured, if you for one moment give me cause to think you're in danger of shuffling off the mortal coil, or of reverting to your former loyalties . . ." Isca drew the tip of his thumb-talon down the side of her neck, not deep enough to draw blood, just hard enough to be felt. His eyes lingered a moment on her throat, his lips slightly parted to reveal the deadly canines before releasing her and rising to leave the table, the threat still hanging ominously in the air. Freya, more than a little shaken, wondered what could cause such a sudden and complete change in his attitude towards her, her mind soon ranging back to the tale he had told her of his suffering at Turel's hands. If even half of it was true, it was a wonder the man hadn't emerged completely psychotic.  
  


*  
  
Lithe and soundless, a black-robed figure made its way with an unfaltering stride across the few dry hillocks that protruded through the stagnant waters of the Termagant Swamp. The creature emitted no sound itself, being of a laconic nature at the best of times, yet still a gurgling noise rose ever and again from the burden it carried, alerting all manner of bog- dwellers to the strange duo's passage. It was with some relief and a not inconsiderable sense of achievement that Grix once again crossed the threshold into the tumbledown shack, his previous contemptuous attitude replaced by one of reverent awe: he now knew whose power the humble structure housed. In spite of this revelation, he greeted the servant who once again awaited him with a haughty word - his manner towards those of the servile class had not changed - and was soon following him down a dank passageway that led deep beneath the bowels of the swamp. The man-made walls and floors eventually gave way to natural bedrock whose ebon hues sparkled with mineral veins, and the tunnel eventually discharged its travellers into a cavern of immense proportions where waited the figure Grix was so eager to please.  
  
"I have brought the child, my Lord." He bowed in anticipation of his master's commendation.  
  
Janos' golden eyes fell on the burden the vampire carried, and he stepped forward eagerly, face lit by an almost manic joy.  
  
"You're sure this is he?"  
  
A little taken aback by the Ancient's offhand manner, as well as his lack of formal greeting, Grix replied, "Yes, my Lord. His own father confirmed it."  
  
As though suddenly aware of the impropriety of his actions, the blue- skinned being straightened from his hunched posture over the cot and regarded Grix as though for the first time.  
  
"You have done well, my friend." Grix glowed with pleasure. Janos gave him a pointed stare. "You may leave."  
  
A little put out that he should be so quickly dismissed, Grix decided to mention the outlandish kindred he had met earlier that day. As the vampire gave a detailed description of their garb and weaponry, the elder's eyes darkened and a harsh snarl tugged at the corners of his lips. Cutting across Grix' less-than-flattering monologue, he interjected.  
  
"Was their armour adorned with any symbol or insignia?" At the vampire's affirmation and consequent description of the emblem, it became apparent that the Ancient was practically shaking with anger, his hands clenched into fists and his teeth bared in a vicious grimace of hatred. A further glance at the stunned vampire caused Janos to calm himself, straightening his robe in an attempt to appear unruffled.  
  
"They are deceivers, Grix, come to wipe out our people and claim our lands for their own. Show them no mercy, for none will be shown to you." As the vampire nodded in willing acceptance of this latest order, Janos paused to add a phrase he knew would further infuse his servant with the flame of duty:  
  
"Kill them for me."  
  
*  
  
The Razielim's tireless tread brought them to the boundaries of the Sarafan Stronghold shortly before dawn's first glimmer lighted the horizon. The vampire contingent stepped warily into the grass-verged courtyard, the edges of which were home to the gruesome prizes the warrior priests had wrested from their vanquished foes. Although Freya would much have preferred to find a way around, Isca pointed out that there were likely to be far less guards around at this hour of the morning, and so it was a perfect time to cut across the grounds. His words were to prove a trifle inaccurate as a small army of Sarafan warriors, armed and ready for battle, careened into view from one of the doorways that opened onto the square. The troop came to a halt, taking in the sight of the undead intruders with some alarm.  
  
"Did someone open the gates to the Underworld tonight?" asked the commanding officer in disbelief. "Where are these demons coming from?"  
  
Without waiting for an answer to his question, the Sarafan knight levelled his weapon at the Razielim and gave voice to a lusty battle-cry. The vampires were more than ready: any opportunity to face their arch-enemies, irrespective of place or time, was welcomed with open arms. The conflict would be fierce and deadly - these knights were obviously of higher rank and better training than those the Razielim had so recently engaged - and the undead would be hard put to maintain the advantage. . .  
  


*  
**Author's Notes  
**  
The first scene in this chapter was one of many I planned to cut as unnecessary, but Kitty's recent comments convinced me that it actually wasn't clear why Freya was wandering around with a group of vampires with complete impunity. On the other hand, the attitude of the Razielim (and particularly Isca) towards her is hinted at in the last couple of chapters of 'Lost on Nosgoth'. I think - at least that was the plan. . . so much for subtlety! I'll use the sledgehammer approach in future. : )


	8. Battle at the Sarafan Stronghold

Stoic as always, Isca faced this newest challenge with the characteristic aplomb that had made him such an excellent substitute in Raziel's absence. He drew his blade in readiness, sizing up the odds in the moments before the knights' attack. The Sarafan were slightly greater in number and the vampires were on enemy ground, which gave their opponents a distinct advantage - especially since Isca had no idea how many knights this complex might hold. However, these were the hours of darkness, the time of the vampire troops' greatest power, which, along with the keen night vision, afforded the immortals an advantage of their own. Isca liked the odds. Even as the Sarafan officer gave the order for attack, Isca sent his own men forward with a flourish of steel and a demand for victory.  
  
Freya hesitated for a fraction of a second before joining her new comrades in the charge: the last time she had taken a human life, there had been no choice. She chanced a quick look at the creatures with whom she now stood and recognised that even as the Sarafan P'ramma she had held her pale- skinned foes in high esteem. True, they were heartless and brutal in combat, but what she now knew was that the one feature that distinguished them from the Sarafan knights was their directness - no underhand machinations, just plain, simple aggression. That was something she both understood and respected. Aware that her actions over the next few seconds would affect all her future interactions with her own species on this planet, and no longer finding that prospect such a burden, Freya took a solid grip on the handle of the Dark Angel and gave herself completely to the fight.  
  
A trio of knights rushed one vampire warrior who was separated from the main body of the group, the first aiming a low blow to the knees while the other two circled, looking for an opening in his defences. The surrounded Razielim growled low in his throat as he parried the first knight's tentative thrusts, a rapid feint to the side narrowly saving him from decapitation as one of the guards to his rear chanced a slice at his neck. Now in a better position to face all three, the vampire made a taunting gesture for one of the knights to dare an assault. The more foolhardy of the three complied, a severed leg serving to warn his comrades against this method of attack. Shortly thereafter, the Sarafan advanced together, flanking their adversary. As the vampire swivelled to intercept the stroke of the knight on his left, his cohort lunged into the opening, the speed of the zealot's swing ensuring that the vampire could not possibly block it in time. Even as the Razielim essayed to withdraw his snagged weapon from the body of the first knight, he perceived that his fate was sealed. Then, impossibly, the human stopped, transfixed at the apex of his strike. His body crumpled to the ground, a deep rent in the back of his armour evidencing the means of his demise. Behind him, bloodied katana in both hands stood Freya, who paused fleetingly to afford her comrade a quick wink before returning to the thick of the battle.  
  
Elsewhere, Isca had engaged the Sarafan officer in single combat, as was proper in the circumstances, and was even now infused with the exhilaration of facing a worthy opponent for once. The easy victories of the past few days were as poison to the spirit, he mused as he countered the Sarafan's slashing blade with no small amount of difficulty. His men needed a hard- won triumph, and from the way this battle was going, they were going to get it. Ducking under a particularly well-aimed head-height slash, Isca countered with a fierce side-swipe at the knight's torso. His blade met the steel casing with a solid clang, the resulting rent in the well-forged armour testimony to the unnatural edge on the Vampire blade. Pressing his advantage, Isca bore down on his opponent with demonic speed, his insane grin serving to further incapacitate the Sarafan officer. The human made a valiant effort to parry the frenzied blows the undead was raining on his head, but to no avail: Sarafan steel shattered beneath vampiric strength, the knight casting one last distraught glance at his splintered weapon before Isca's blade sheared skin, flesh and spinal column in one single devastating move. The vampire watched with an emotion akin to regret as the officer's severed head, still perched on top of its body, gave up its hold as gravity enforced its will.  
  
Glancing about to find his next opponent, Isca's gaze fell in Freya's direction just in time to see her thrown bodily onto a marble table at the edge of the courtyard, the hulking brute who was poised over her even now preparing to cut her in half with a two-handed cleaver. His cry of warning died on his lips as the woman executed a speedy sideways roll, avoiding the slashing blade by inches. He watched as the weapon caused splinters to fly out of the solid marble surface before seeing her vault from a shoulder- stand to her feet and bring down the katana in a clean stroke to split her opponent's skull. Having heard Isca's half-uttered cry, Freya searched out his face, poked her tongue out at him, and cartwheeled off the table.  
  
Isca managed to wipe the idiotic grin from his face before his next adversary saw it.  
  
Buoyed by the vampire's apparent concern, however misplaced, Freya charged at a blonde haired knight, his tender years indicated by the light film of fluff that covered patches of the lower portion of his face. An hour ago, his age might have stayed her hand, but now, her decision irreversibly made, she no longer considered these humans as kin, and the youth's lifeforce would be extinguished at her hands without pity or remorse. She glanced around her as she paused to remove the boy's flesh from her blade, almost instantly pinpointing Isca mid-swing. The vampire was magnificent in action, his every movement fluid, practiced, well-timed - if a little on the sadistic side. She bit down on the smile that was tugging at a corner of her mouth, an unexpected but not unpleasant thought rising to the surface - her father would have hated him. A punch in the nose from a plated Sarafan fist caught her off-guard, the lightning reflex that prompted her to roll with it saving her face, but unfortunately sending her tumbling out of control into the basin of a fountain in the centre of the courtyard. The icy touch of running water caused her to involuntarily catch her breath, and Freya struggled to regain her feet as the knight who had knocked her down leaped towards the fountain, broadsword raised for the kill. She cursed herself for allowing such a trifling thought distract her mid-combat.  
  
Swords clashed and sparks flew over every square foot of the garden; the grass, so fresh and verdant but a few moments earlier was already trampled to a brown sludge; roars of anger and cries of pain echoed from the plastered walls in a chilling imitation of a lunatic asylum as every man fought for his life and his cause. In one corner of the courtyard, a seasoned greybeard had engaged one of the younger Elite, though no-one would have guessed from their appearances that their true ages were not so very far apart. The human launched an old-style attack at the Razielim, disguising the direction of his blow as he brought it to bear. The vampire fell for it, his attempt to parry the swipe he initially thought aimed at his legs falling short as the old man changed directions at the last minute, plunging his blade through the creature's heart with a satisfied grunt. A smug smile spread across the human's face as he imagined telling that young punk of a commanding officer how, contrary to all expectations he was still able to match wits with the vampire legions. With this invigorating thought in mind, he turned to seek his next foe, only to see that one of the bastards had crept up on him, unheard by his aging ears, and that the creature's sword was already penetrating his battered breastplate. Without so much as a groan, the old warrior sank lifeless to the ground, a slight smile bringing a touch of that long-lost youth to his features, his dreams of vanquishing one more undead leech now fulfilled.  
  
Isca, a savage smile on his features as sword rent flesh, paused to take stock of the situation. His men were winning, slowly but surely, and as long as the Sarafan did not call for reinforcements, the Razielim would add another victory to their growing list before the night was out. A final sweeping glance revealed no sign of Freya. Cursing under his breath, he batted a willing opponent aside distractedly as he strode forward with single-minded purpose. He had spotted a flash of black satin near the centre of the square and watched in alarm as the form tumbled into the fountain pool with a splash. The Sarafan who had put her there was even now closing the distance to push home his advantage and Isca realised he would be too late. An image of the events at the Abyss flared fleetingly in his mind with unbearable clarity, and he lunged forward, determined that this day would not end in a like tragedy. However, as he reached out to grab the Sarafan, he found himself sprayed with a jet of blood as a sword point erupted from the knight's back. On observing the woman's resultant struggle and hearing various muffled curses about men having no right to be so heavy when they were so dead, he reached down to drag the corpse off her.  
  
Freya was more than a little relieved to see it was Isca who stood above her, proffering his claw to aid her to rise - but in the space of a moment, the look of utter horror that appeared on his face was enough to freeze her where she lay, the water tinkling musically in her ears. She followed the direction of his pointing claw to her stomach where a dark pool of ruby liquid was slowly collecting.  
  
Sensing his understandable mistake, she grinned "It's alright - it's not mine!"  
  
Glaring at her from beneath a lowered brow, Isca pulled her to her feet - a little too hard, and she was thrown momentarily against his chest, her "oops-a-daisy" freezing on her lips as she interpreted his stony expression.  
  
"Reconsider." He growled through gritted teeth.  
  
Freya's resolve wavered. Feeling primal and reckless as she always did after a battle, she found herself intoxicated as much by the heady rush of a brush with Death as by the proximity of this potent male so soon afterwards. Fortunately, the temptation quickly subsided, common sense prevailing over mindless desire.  
  
"I think we won," she managed, when she trusted herself to speak, avoiding both the vampire's gaze and the ultimatum. Isca's stare continued, unwavering, but whatever his reply might have been was cut short as the earth began to tremble beneath their feet. The few duels that remained in the courtyard broke off as opponents were thrown apart by the bucking ground, sending Sarafan and Vampire alike crashing to the floor in undignified heaps. Moments later, a blinding wave of energy burst from the confines of the Sarafan Stronghold, its dazzling glare surpassed only by its tremendous force. The crackling energy surged inexorably across every obstacle that stood in its path, representing a power against which not even time could hope to prevail.  
  
Kain's coin had landed on its edge. 


	9. Soul Reaver

Destiny was a heartless mistress.  
  
Fallen from Dark God to Angel of Vengeance; manipulated as a pawn by Vampire, Time Streamer and Elder God alike; hounded by humans in every century of existence; guilty of fratricide, pride and overconfidence - he had been bested at the last not by any of these events nor the individuals who wrought them, but by fate itself. It was no coincidence that he found himself here in this final moment of paradox, kneeling within the Ouroboros carved with remarkable premonition into the floor of the Sarafan Sanctuary. His inescapable destiny hurtled towards him with every passing second. Defeated, weak beyond all comparison, he knelt with head bowed, glaring impotently at the ever-present wraith blade, the symbiont bound to his arm as always in the spectral realm. Despair consumed him: even the option of suicide was beyond his reach for the cruel trick the Elder God had played on him. He had no choice but to eternally tread the path destiny had laid before him.  
  
Kain was correct - free will was an illusion.  
  
Outside, the sun had finally deigned to put in an appearance, her first glorious rays even now warming the cold dead skin of the fallen, assisting here and there with the drying of the large pools of congealing blood that mottled the courtyard floor. Freya sat up from where she lay next to Isca on the paved ground, quickly guessing the cause of the recent disruption. Well, whatever changes Kain had forced in the path of history, and thereby the future, it was evident that his Vampire Empire would still flourish: the continued existence of Isca and the Razielim were proof of that. She poked her companion in the arm just to be sure.  
  
As his golden eyes turned their piercing gaze on her, reminding her in that instant so much of his sire, Freya realised with a start that they could now find the Soul Reaver - in fact, at this very moment he would be within the Stronghold itself. A sudden look of revelation lighting her features, she addressed the vampire.  
  
"Isca - Raziel is here."  
  
He regarded her with suspicion and not a little frustration. "You might have mentioned that when we arrived. Are we to be too late to save him once again?"  
  
His caustic tone stung, but preferring action to explanations for the moment, she clambered to her feet and started towards the door at the farthest corner of the courtyard, turning back as she reached it to check whether the others were following. Seeing that his men had dispatched the remaining knights in the calm that had followed the energy wave, Isca called them together and resignedly followed Freya into the Stronghold. Her steps led them unerringly along grey, candlelit corridors, the slowly rising sun painting the floor with patches of emerald, ruby and sapphire as it filtered through the stained-glass windows. At length, they reached the door that opened into the inner sanctum of the Sarafan Sanctuary, and Freya paused to cross her fingers in the fervent hope that the Soul Reaver was still here, and had not decided to go off time-streaming in search of his manipulative sire - she preferred not to imagine Isca's reaction if her information should prove false.  
  
As Raziel knelt in utter despondency in the cobalt cold of the Spectral Realm, he became dimly aware of an approaching presence, the proximity of which awoke long-buried memories, along with a poignant and inexplicable sense of belonging. Raising his head wearily, he crawled laboriously towards the nearest conduit that would allow his return to the Material Realm. He remained on his knees within the softly-glowing circle, minutes passing painfully as he attempted to summon the energy needed to lower his cowl to feed. This done, he spread his arms to begin the motion that would allow his passing from one realm to the next, this one act draining him almost to the point of dissipation once again.  
  
Freya's heart sank as they entered the room. It was empty. No Kain, no Soul Reaver, just the bloodless corpse of the Sarafan Raziel, slumped in defeat at the edge of the serpentine design on the floor. Steeling herself for whatever retribution might be coming, she spoke, confusion tingeing her tone:  
  
"I don't understand it - he should be here."  
  
Isca stepped forward hesitantly, a frown momentarily creasing his brow, although his eyes remained wide in expectancy as he sensed the almost palpable presence of his sire in the room.  
  
"He is," replied the vampire in a hushed voice.  
  
A glowing disc erupted of a sudden in the centre of the room, scintillant sparks swirling erratically around the emanation of energy that heralded the Soul Reaver's return to the Material Realm. A dark silhouette began to form in the centre of the dance of light, arms extended to either side as the barrier between the Spectral and Material Realms was forced apart by its will. Exhausted once more, Raziel pitched forward to steady himself on all fours and wait until the world should cease its remorseless spinning. Isca's jaw dropped. Although he had seen the Soul Reaver in passing at the Pillars, he had not fully comprehended just how drastic was the change in his Lord's appearance. Overcoming his hesitancy, the vampire advanced slowly to stand before his sire, striving valiantly to conceal the horror that was threatening to overload his mind.  
  
Raziel, at the limit of his strength, perceived that a figure stood before him. His gaze travelled up over the bronze greaves, so like those he had once worn as Lieutenant, to take in the leather trousers and red, clenched talons. Wholly puzzled by now but unable to raise his head any further, Raziel made some attempt at speech.  
  
"Who . . .?"  
  
At the sound of his master's voice, Isca sank to his knees, all doubt forever banished. As the vampire's upper body came into Raziel's line of vision, he was able to make out the Clan symbol that decorated the cloak thrown over Isca's shoulder. Surprise overcame weakness, and the Soul Reaver pushed himself upright to take in the sight before him in its entirety, his voice faltering as he addressed the offspring he thought long ago corrupted and devolved:  
  
"Isca?"  
  
Overcome with nameless emotions, Isca bowed his head. The assembled Razielim followed suit, emulating their leader's actions and sinking to their knees. The movement caught the Soul Reaver's attention, and his wonder at seeing even one of his Clan alive and flourishing was increased tenfold as he drank in the sight of a small battalion of warriors, all sporting his insignia. His former despondency faded to the status of a nightmare when dawn's warming rays banish the dark thoughts of the night, as it was brought home to the one-time Vampire that his Clan lived on. The knowledge that his bloodline had not been extinguished rallied his flagging spirits, and with a concerted effort, the Soul Reaver forced himself to his feet, Isca offering support as he did so. As the glowing white eyes indulged themselves in a second feast on the room's occupants, the Soul Reaver noticed the presence of Freya, who was standing incongruously a little way behind the kneeling Razielim, an almost apologetic smile on her face as she wiggled her fingers in greeting.  
  
Raziel turned to Isca, one blue brow-muscle raised in surprise. "You brought the P'ramma?"  
  
"She was here when we arrived." Replied Isca in a faint voice, his mind yet in shock.  
  
Still confounded by the inexplicable presence of his vampire troops, Raziel asked, "How is it that you come to be in this time? Did Kain's foolish attempts at manipulating history bring about such drastic changes?"  
  
Isca recounted his story in much the same way as he had told Freya, informing his emaciated Lord about Turel's attempts to gain dominion of the Clan, and their subsequent attempt at hunting him down. He omitted any mention of his punishment at the Vampire Lieutenant's hands, not wishing to sound like a martyr. As he recounted the incident where they had followed Turel into the Chronoplast, Raziel's head snapped towards him, his manner vengeful and urgent.  
  
"My brother is here? So it was time-streaming that allowed him to escape my wrath!" Raziel ignored Isca's puzzled look, his own story could be told later - the very thought that the vampire incarnation of Kain's second-born might yet be within reach took precedence, and acted as a powerful restorative to his weakened form. "Have you yet found the bastard?"  
  
"No, Lord. But now that we have found you we will proceed with our original mission." A pointed throat-clearing prompted him to glance at Freya, her meaningful stare reminding him of their primary goal. " . . . Although we still need to find Kain."  
  
Raziel glanced at him distractedly. "He has left - no doubt in an attempt to wrangle some other change of world-altering significance in the time- stream."  
  
Isca shook his head. "I mean the child Kain. He was stolen by one of this era's vampires, and we've been trying to track him down."  
  
Freya approached the blue-skinned Soul Reaver, noting as she drew nearer just how grim was the actuality of his condition - the muscles and sinews were revealed for all to see in their full textured detail, the curvature of the spine beneath the unsupported weight of the ribcage all too evident.  
  
Swallowing to moisten her suddenly dry throat, Freya commented, "Someone is trying to prevent Kain from fulfilling his destiny."  
  
The Soul Reaver gave a hollow laugh. "It would make a refreshing change from people interfering with mine!"  
  
"We think someone may be trying to wipe out Vampirekind." Insisted the woman.  
  
"By killing Kain as a child?" Raziel shook his head. "Kain is embroiled so deeply in Nosgoth's past, present and future that simply removing him from the timeline . . ."  
  
Isca and Freya waited expectantly for the Soul Reaver to continue, but Raziel had fallen silent, lost in impossible temporal calculations. Eventually, even he had to admit defeat, and he turned his glowing gaze on the two before him - human and vampire. Indecision enveloped him anew. It was not so very long ago that he had cursed Kain for his 'gift' of immortality, and more recently still that he had renounced his Sarafan self. The Soul Reaver was unique, his new loyalties lying with neither human- nor vampire-kind. However, a turning-point had been reached with the unexpected return of his Clan, and despite efforts to resist, Raziel still found himself kindly disposed to his vampire children. He would aid them.  
  
"Who took him?"  
  
Isca scowled. "A vampire wretch we came upon recently."  
  
Raziel considered this. "It is unlikely that he would wish to eliminate his own species. We should assume he works for someone else."  
  
Isca and Freya cast annoyed glances at each other, both looks implying the same accusatory thought: 'You should have thought of that'.  
  
"Very well," said Raziel, eyes flaring briefly with the conviction of his words. "First we find Kain . . . then we go after Turel."  
  
If the Vampire Lieutenant in question could have heard the tone of his brother's voice at that moment, he would have turned tail and fled Nosgoth forever in favour of safer climes - Hell, for example.  
  
Without so much as a backwards glance at the fallen body of his former self, Raziel strode, his Clan behind him once again, from the confines of the Sarafan Stronghold.  
  
Author's Note  
  
Aw, nuts! I replayed the end of SR2 today to get my bearings on the rest of this story and realised I'm made a major cock-up with the timeline. Sorry folks, let's just put it down to artistic licence shall we? Hehe . . . *nervous titter*  
  
Shadow Dragon: Er. . .thanks for the review *blush*. Glad you like it! 


	10. Revelation

Author's Note. I'm sure you're all totally fed up of battle scenes by now, but I promise there are only two (?) more to go! Oh yeah, and sorry if I'm rambling - not feeling particularly concise today so this chapter may be a little long . . .  
  
*  
  
The crunch of booted feet on gravel echoed repetitively as Grix strode imperiously back and forth before the assembled throng, his sense of authority enlarged in proportion to the size of his audience. Word had been sent out immediately on his return from Janos' secret hideaway the previous night, and by first light, the recruits were pouring in from the four points of the compass. It was with a sense of superior satisfaction that the vampire beheld the orderly lines of pale-faced soldiers: all those who had answered the call had come dressed in the recommended non-descript grey and black, and were even now standing rigidly to attention to receive their eagerly-awaited orders: the opportunity to embark on a mission handed down directly from Janos Audron himself had inspired even the most introverted of the species to present themselves. Grix took great delight in imparting to the volunteers the self-same information that had been passed to him: that these 'Razielim' were a rival Vampire species come to wipe out the Nosgoth Vampire creed by disposing of their ultimate saviour, the child Kain, at an early age. The dissonant outcry that rose from the two hundred or so vampires rebounded malevolently from the walls of Grix' courtyard, and was of sufficient volume to chill the blood of a farmer who huddled in his muddy nightshirt in the heart of the forest a full three miles away.  
  
A short distance to the south, the Razielim were departing the Sarafan Sanctuary. So far, they had passed through the remainder of the complex relatively unchallenged - it was clear that the events of the past few hours had not only severely reduced the numbers of inhabitants, but had also ensured that those who remained had little on their minds but grief for fallen comrades. When the decision had been taken to try to pick up the vampire leader's cold trail to the north of the Sanctuary, Isca and Raziel had fallen into deep conversation at the head of the column while the rest followed respectfully behind. Freya imagined that they had much to discuss, and she briefly pondered what Isca's thoughts might be on having Raziel back again, especially on the matter of having to rescind his leadership. In any event, it was clear from the latter's attitude that he was exceedingly proud of his offspring, and was most impressed at the role he had undertaken in his absence. Either way, Freya was glad the two were otherwise engaged, as it at least meant Isca's attention would be elsewhere in this moment of relative calm. Nonetheless, her mind was plagued with worry that the Vampire son might see fit to mention to his sire that she had had foreknowledge of his demise at Kain's hands. She kept her fingers crossed for the time being.  
  
About an hour into their march, the party came to a halt. An advance scout had returned at full pelt with a warning that the vampires they had encountered previously were travelling in their direction. The scornful jeers that rose from the troops were silenced as the scout went on to warn that their numbers were significantly increased - the force he had seen had numbered some seventy or eighty men. Undaunted by such trifling odds, the Razielim continued on to where the narrow gorge they were following opened out into a gravely plain at the side of a rushing river, enclosed on either sides by earthworks that rose to the height of a tall man. The formation of the banks suggested that they were man-made, probably to prevent the river's reclamation of its flood-plain, the geographic features combining to form a species of natural arena. As the march ceased once again, Freya pushed forward to join Raziel and Isca at the summit. The view before them was discouraging, but far from insurmountable. It was evident that the advance scout had underestimated slightly, the true strength of the opposition numbering closer to one hundred. The three exchanged tactical comments, each one an experienced leader of men. They soon concurred that the priority was to ensure they were not outflanked, the decision prompting an order for the rearguard to reconnoitre the earthen banks and ensure the enemy could not pass and surround them.  
  
A cloud passed fleetingly over the early morning sun, a chill breeze stirring the light scree and sending it tumbling across the plain with a hard chittering sound. Freya's eyes darted to the earthen bank to her left, upon which heads were steadily appearing as one of the enemy flanks came into view. She nudged Isca's arm and felt the responding tensing of his frame as a company of fifty crested the rise. They were soon mirrored by an equal number on the right hand side of the field, armed to the teeth and awaiting the word in ominous, anticipatory silence. Isca's jaw muscles tensed as he gritted his teeth: since their arrival he had lost but a few of his men, and though his company still numbered some thirty, all Elite, the likelihood of emerging victorious against such overwhelming odds was slim at best. He glanced at his sire, who was appraising the scene with what Isca assumed was a similar expression to his own, and found himself wondering if indeed he could even fight in that pitiful form. A strengthening wind whistled mournfully down the canyon behind them, causing cloaks to flap with whip-cracking suddenness. Then, with no warning, the vampires attacked.  
  
Raziel watched with considerable pride as his Clan adopted their trademark defensive positions, the tactic almost entirely unchanged from the method he had taught them so very long ago. He noted with interest that Isca and Freya had chosen to partner one another in the fight, although he was not entirely surprised that the pairing went well - he had evaluated the P'ramma's combat style himself when he had fought her armies so very long ago - or was that so very far in the future? The Soul Reaver shook his head, dismissing the temporal quandary, and joined his men in combat.  
  
The first line of troops that encountered the Razielim were sent back in pieces, the defence holding strong. Grix, unconcerned by the loss of men, ordered twice as many in the second wave from where he stood overlooking the battle from his perch atop the left hand bank They fared no better. Angered by the repeated failure, and contrary to the agreed plan, he motioned to the flankers on either bank to attack with the third wave. The tide turned.  
  
As the battle began in earnest, Isca's eyes were drawn to the wiry figure shouting orders from on high, his partner catching his eye as he did so. Isca gave a grim smile as he beheld the sheer mass of combatants that separated him from his eventual goal.  
  
"He'll have to wait."  
  
As the fight wore on and the adversaries increased and varied their attacks, Freya found herself revelling in the bloodshed as never before. Working in tandem with her Vampire ally, it was as though they moved in an elegant, deadly dance, each slash and cut matched by a complementary action in a blinding display of harmonic skill. The pair's death-dealing blades flashed in a passable impression of a meat grinder, and it was not long before they had accumulated a large number and variety of body parts on the floor at their feet. Sheer exultation was exceeded only by ravenous bloodlust, and although the woman's was sated in a vastly different manner from that of the Vampire, still she savoured every crimson-tinted minute and every splash of cold enemy blood. In an all-too-brief moment of respite, the breathless couple exchanged wild grins, the woman turning back almost immediately to check her surroundings. Isca, still jubilant from their continued success, clapped his companion on the back in a gesture of approbation. Freya froze, her teeth gritted as she attempted to pop her shoulder back into place before the fighting began anew. She turned to him with a look of complete aggravation.  
  
"If you do that once more, I'm going to go partner someone else - I don't think my back can take much more of your enthusiasm!" On seeing the vampire's look of contrition, she instantly regretted her cutting tone.  
  
Isca, for his part, berated himself soundly - he tended to forget that his human companion was not quite as robust as they. "Forgive me, Freya - I sometimes forget . . ." He paused as he found himself quite opposed to the idea of dissolving the formidable partnership they had come to form.  
  
"There are few I'd rather have at my side . . . in battle."  
  
Freya tried not to read too much into his tone, nor his mid-sentence pause, but the look that accompanied the words spoke volumes on its own. With a wry smile, she gave her shoulder one final click, rotating it to check it functioned, and returned to the fray with added impetus.  
  
Elsewhere, the battle was not going so well. Despite valiant efforts, the Razielim were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of their adversaries: the flood plain grew dark with blood as the occasional unfortunate Clan warrior disappeared beneath a writhing mass of grey, the impossibility of the six- to-one odds becoming all too clear. Their valiant efforts proved vain as man after man was torn limb from limb in jetting geysers of blood. This looked to be the Razielim's blackest day. However, a stalwart few stood against a zealous many, and Fortune favours the brave - which was where Raziel came in.  
  
In complete contrast to Isca's fear, the Soul Reaver proved himself easily the most vicious and most capable warrior on the battlefield. His skills, well-adapted to fighting multiple adversaries, made him the scourge of the plain as he slashed right and left with wide sweeps of his deadly claws. It perturbed him a little that the wraith blade appeared to have deserted him, its shimmering presence felt only in the Spectral Realm since the events at the Stronghold. Dismissing the thought, he levitated a spear from a fallen warrior and, taking a firm two-clawed grip, pivoted to face the creature who had been stalking him, the writhing form finding itself impaled on the weapon mere seconds later. Glancing about at his outnumbered children, he took to using his telekinetic force projectiles to free them from the enemies who clung to them like oversized parasites, the Razielim's gratitude evinced by the salutes he received in return. The sense of belonging that had assailed him as he knelt, wasted and wounded in the Spectral Realm returned with renewed strength, endowing the Soul Reaver with a purpose for survival other than revenge. He threw himself back into combat, a fierce grin in his mind, if not on his face, blissfully ignorant of the fact that without his aid, the tide of battle might well have turned against the future-born.  
  
As the morning wore on, the crowd began to thin, the odds now far closer to two to one - well within the Razielim's ferocious capabilities. It was at this time that Isca caught sight of Grix in a gap on the battlefield, sword at his side and his eyes locked on target, patently waiting for him. He placed a claw gently on his fighting partner's shoulder to catch her attention, to see her gaze flick from him to the waiting vampire and back again.  
  
Freya quickly interpreted the torn look on Isca's face and grinned indulgently.  
  
"Go settle that score, you!"  
  
Isca responded with a look of guilt-ridden concern. To ease his conscience, Freya indicated a nearby Razielim whose comrade had but recently fallen. "I'll partner him."  
  
Isca met her gaze with a look that for some unfathomable reason invoked goosebumps.  
  
"For now . . ."  
  
A smile was threatening to erupt on Freya's face, and a loaded glance passed briefly between them. With an unspoken promise lingering nebulously in the air, the vampire departed to meet his nemesis.  
  
Grix stood statue-still, sword point resting on the floor between his feet. Having seen the young vampire exchange words with the human woman, he gave a malicious grin. "You took your sweet time, youngling - did you have to ask permission from the little woman to come out and fight?"  
  
Oblivious to his opponent's warning growl, he cast an appraising glance at the lithe, black-clad form currently cutting chunks out of his soldiers and gave a lewd smile, commenting, "To the victor the spoils, eh?"  
  
Isca's eyes flared with anger and a possessiveness that surprised him.  
  
"Over my dead body."  
  
"That's the general idea, boy."  
  
Fired by the scrawny creature's words, Isca launched a devastating attack, which, if it had hit home, would have split his adversary from neck to groin. Grix was faster than that. Impressed nonetheless by Isca's dramatic swing, he countered with a low thrust, testing the youth's reflexes. Throwing himself quickly into a forward roll, the future-born vampire rose easily and turned to parry the surprise attack he knew was coming. Steel met steel with an explosion of blue sparks and a resounding clang. Grix nodded his approval: this would be a duel to remember. The combatants now entered into a frantic slash-and-parry contest, the speed increasing by the moment until the sparking blades were a silvered blur in the misty air. Much as Isca was relishing the frenzied attack, Grix was slowly proving the more experienced of the two, a moment later taking advantage of his opponent's concentration on the swordplay to suddenly change tactics and knock the youngster's feet from under him.  
  
He rested the point of his sword at the bested vampire's throat, his tone that of an admonishing schoolmaster.  
  
"Tut tut, child. Now I see why you rescinded control to that skeletal wretch - you're hardly 'leader' material, are you?"  
  
The insinuation that he was unfit to lead galvanised Isca's despondent form, and, taking a leaf from Freya's book, he batted away the blade to leap to his feet in a good approximation of the shoulder-vault he had seen his friend execute on several occasions, much to the surprise of both parties. Grim determination marked Isca's carriage now that insult had been added to injury. Remembering some words of wisdom his sire had imparted to him as a young fledge, he decided to forego his attempt at matching the vampire's style. Instead he returned once more to the assets upon which he had always relied: brute strength and speed, these fortes now complemented by the recent addition of the outlandish moves he had picked up from contact with Freya's more unusual fighting habits. Grix was hard- pressed to defend against the whirlwind attack that the youngster now launched, his defensive stance wavering beneath the sheer weight of Isca's blows. With a final Herculean effort, Isca shattered the vampire's blade, the point of his sword continuing past his opponent's breached guard to embed itself in his shoulder.  
  
Grix sank to the ground with a look of fear contorting his pallid features. He scrabbled frantically against the loose dirt, attempting to elude Isca's finishing strike and achieving nothing other than a fair impression of a frightened crab.  
  
With a defiant glare, the vampire shouted, "It matters not that you win this day - you will never gain possession of Kain." He shot desperate glances about him looking for an escape route, only to find that the whelp was now flanked by the human woman and the blue-skinned demon. Unable to relinquish his hold on existence without getting one over on his enemy, Grix added, "He is in Janos' hands now, and my Lord will never allow you to destroy our kind."  
  
Raziel, thoroughly confused by the vampire's words, and even more so that he should name the Ancient as his master, stepped between Isca and Grix, taking a handful of the hapless creature's leather hauberk into one lethal claw.  
  
"What do you know of Janos Audron?" The Soul Reaver's eyes glowed white with the promise of unimaginable pain. "Why would you claim that it is he who commands this rabble?"  
  
"Hands off me, skeletal one - he is the father of our kind. When he hears of this . . ."  
  
Shaking the vampire soundly, Raziel interjected, "Janos Audron is dead, miscreant." Grix' eyes widened and he shook his head in mindless denial. Raziel continued, "I was present when the Sarafan took his life yesterday in his Aerie." The Soul Reaver hesitated as unpleasant memories flooded back, and he added in a gentler tone, "I was with him when he passed."  
  
Grix wrenched himself free and stumbled backwards, horror marring his features. "Lies! I was with him just last night!" Realising that he was free of the demon's grasp and out of reach of Isca's sword, he leaped to his feet and turned to bolt. Isca stepped forward, weapon poised to strike, but Raziel stayed his hand, receiving a mutinous, indignant and angry look in return. For one tense moment Raziel thought Isca might actually chance his arm against him, but the moment passed and without a word, Isca thundered after his prey. Freya and Raziel hesitated only long enough to assure themselves that the battle had indeed turned at last in the Razielim's favour, before leaving them to their feast and heading off on Isca's trail, both sure that the ancient vampire would probably lead them to the true malefactor.  
  
Within ten minutes, their loping jog brought Isca into sight. He was standing at the edge of a vile-smelling swamp, evidently attempting to locate the trail of the fleeing vampire. Raziel indicated a tumbledown shack that bore evidence of recent forced entry, and the three passed silently between its shadowy walls. Hardly had they entered when Grix emerged screaming from the depths of a tunnel at the back of the room, his hair snow-white, his eyes rolled up in his head, his mouth slack and drooling, only the physical impulse to escape whatever lurked beneath sending his body onwards in its staccato marionette dance. Blind to the path before him, the vampire ran cleanly onto Isca's outstretched blade, the madness fading into a look of gratitude as the life and knowledge departed the tormented form. The Razielim took no pleasure in his enemy's death, and the Soul Reaver passed the mutually accepted comment that Isca had probably done him a favour.  
  
Since it was now a fair assumption that they had reached the lair of the beast, the three descended into the tunnel from where Grix' had made his precipitous exit, their presence shortly met with mocking laughter that echoed through the cavernous halls below.  
  
"I was wondering when we would meet again." The voice was at once welcoming, snide and self-satisfied. "Your adventures in this time have not gone unnoticed, my friend." The three glanced at one another, uncertain as to who the voice might be addressing, until the next question left them in no doubt. "You just didn't have the decency to stay dead, did you?" That horrendous laugh poured forth once again, filling the cavern with its lunatic echoes.  
  
The Soul Reaver scowled at the noise, calling out to the maniac, "Identify yourself - you are not Janos, for all the vampires of this time seem to think so."  
  
There was a pregnant silence. "Can it be that you do not know me," the voice took on a petulant note,  
  
"Brother?" 


	11. The Beast

"TUREL!" roared the Soul Reaver and the vampire in unison. The combination of anger and lust for vengeance in those voices would have been sufficient to terrorise a mortal enemy out of his life. A humoured laugh was the only response. In the silence that followed, the air filled slowly with a crackling charge of energy, the scent of ozone flooding the cavern as a dark wave of unimaginable force hit the three; Human, Vampire and Reaver of Souls, smashing them into crumpled heaps against the unyielding cave wall. With feral growls, Isca and Raziel hauled themselves to their feet, lesser wounds inflicted during the blast healing almost instantaneously. Freya was not so fortunate. Belatedly noting her absence, Isca glanced behind to see that she was still flattened against the back wall of the cavern, left arm at an unnatural angle, blood oozing slowly from deep gashes on thigh and forehead. He approached her, dropping to one knee at her side and seeing from her wry smile that she was still alive, conscious and in fair spirits, considering.  
  
"Looks like you'll have to find someone else to cover your back this time," she said with a strained grin as his face descended to eye level.  
  
Isca gave a half-smile which faded momentarily to be replaced by a look of serious intent.  
  
"When this is over . . ."  
  
Freya stopped him mid-sentence with a finger on his lips. "Get through it first."  
  
He clasped the hand before it could leave his face, keeping it pressed to his lips for a moment. It was then that a true realisation of the bond that had been forged swept over them, the final acceptance of these burgeoning feelings adding vigour and courage to both vampire and human hearts. With one last look that blazed with the promise of what was to come, Isca clasped Freya's uninjured shoulder in a wordless farewell before rising to join his sire.  
  
Raziel had by now advanced to the centre of the cavern, which was lit by a sickly, unnatural light, reminiscent of the phosphorescent glow that is said to emanate from decaying corpses. Isca strode quickly forward to accompany him, only to find to his surprise that the Soul Reaver raised an arm to prevent his progress.  
  
"This is my fight, Isca. If I do not succeed, bring down the cave on his head - do what you have to, but do not let him escape."  
  
A powerful feeling of injustice rose from Isca's gut, tightening the vampire's stomach into knots as he faced the possibility of coming this far - only to be denied his retribution by the very person for whom he had undertaken his quest for revenge. Isca shook his head, rebellion all too clear in his eyes.  
  
Raziel sighed. "You are still little more than a fledgling, Isca - I would prefer not to be worrying about your safety in the middle of combat."  
  
Indignation raged as the vampire drew himself to his full height, his leonine features twisted into an expression of resentment and hurt as the truth he had concealed forced its way to freedom.  
  
"He tortured me . . . because I wouldn't renounce you."  
  
The Soul Reaver took a physical step back, reeling from the revelation, steely purpose shortly overtaking shock.  
  
"All the more reason for me to make him pay."  
  
Isca's troubled soul still screamed for a vengeance that would only be sated when Turel's foul flesh was rent beneath his own claws. Despite his respect for his sire, Isca took a threatening step towards him, his tone raw and hostile, forgoing his customary use of formal title for the first time in his life.  
  
"Raziel . . ."  
  
Turel's uproarious cackle broke across the impending confrontation.  
  
"Ah, fractiousness. Ever the downfall of the Clan Razielim." The two turned to the source of the voice, the being still hidden in shadow at the far end of the cave.  
  
"Much has changed since you were a vampire, Raziel. Let me show you one of our newest abilities. Mutate, the last of Kain's Dark Gifts, is now bequeathed to me."  
  
"Such as you did not deserve to evolve, Turel," opined the Soul Reaver in a low growl.  
  
"I no longer rely on nature's course, brother: I consumed the remainder of the essence of the Blood Demon." A slight frown creased Raziel's forehead. "It wrought not only an accelerated transformation, but endowed me with all Gifts and metamorphoses our species would ever enjoy. You cannot defeat me, brother. I am the ultimate in our kind's evolution, and I shall enjoy ending your life - again."  
  
Raziel's brow lowered as he remembered those hazy moments before his brother's callous action severed him forever from his vampiric unlife.  
  
With a magnanimous air, Turel called, "Here, enjoy a taste of the Gift!"  
  
Raziel took a step back in alarm, ready to flee to higher ground, only to realise that his brother's power was not aimed at him. To his right, Isca collapsed to the floor, screaming in unthinkable pain, the flesh of his arms and legs rising into lumps and splitting open as the skin was strained too far by the pointed spurs of bone that erupted violently from his skeleton. Turel forced more to lance from the vampire's spine, shearing into the ground with the scrape of bone on rock, and transfixing him where he lay writhing on the earthen floor, adding more torment to his overtaxed nervous system.  
  
Raziel turned his burning gaze on Turel and made his demand in a stable, adult tone. "Leave the fledge be, Turel, and face me. Show yourself - unless your powers are limited to intimidating children?"  
  
As if on cue, a pitiful cry emanated from the corner of the room. Turel muttered, almost to himself, "Never could keep his mouth shut."  
  
Raziel stepped forward, craning his neck in an attempt to locate the child. "I know that you have taken Kain, Turel, although for the life of me I admit I cannot fathom your reason."  
  
"Kain is a pawn in a game of my own creation." Turel replied, a smile evident in his voice as he revelled in sharing his work of genius at last. "When I have dispensed with you, I will imbue the child with my essence, and my consciousness will be shared with his." Turel's voice took on a dreamy, sing-song note that, more than all the deeds the Vampire Lieutenant had wrought thus far, finally convinced Raziel that his brother was mad.  
  
"When the boy grows to adulthood and falls again into the hands of Mortanius, I will share his experiences. I will destroy Hash'ak'gik. I will be the cause of the corruption of the pillars."  
  
Turel's tone took on a triumphant note, the sound of a madman lost in his own private fantasy:  
  
"I will be Emperor of Nosgoth!"  
  
So that was the lunatic's plan: to possess the body of the child Kain and thereby live out the self-proclaimed Emperor's millennia of unlife in an attempt at vicarious megalomania!  
  
"You are insane, Turel! You cannot possibly hope to bring such a plan to fruition."  
  
Turel stepped into the light, his appearance causing even the indomitable reaver of souls to think twice. He was Janos Audron, perfect in every detail. No wonder the vampires had succumbed to his deception - only the voice betrayed the identity of the fiend.  
  
"I can do anything I wish, brother. I escaped your wrath in Nosgoth's dark future, I evaded the judgement of your loyal servants, and I have fooled the vampires of this time into thinking I am the one and only Janos Audron. I am the complete master of my own destiny: after all, did I not force my own metamorphosis?" Here Turel halted briefly, savouring his moment, "Just as I forced yours." Raziel's talons clenched into fists as the true depths of his brother's betrayal were at long last revealed.  
  
"Yes, Raziel, I knew of the properties of the Demon's blood - you didn't know it was I who orchestrated your fall from grace, did you?"  
  
An inarticulate roar of pure, unadulterated fury issued from the Soul Reaver. His ire barely contained, Raziel demanded of his brother: "Enough talk, Turel, let us end this!"  
  
"You cannot defeat me, Raziel: I am no longer a creature of flesh and blood."  
  
With deliberate purpose, Turel raised his talons to his lips and inserted them at either side in a ghoulish parody of a child pulling a face. He increased the pressure, stretching his grin beyond any semblance of normal until the blue-tinged skin began to split, dark blood streaming down the sides of his chin and splattering on the ground where it pooled with a faint hiss. With a concerted effort, Turel slid his claw up under his top lip, shearing muscle and sinew from bone with a sickening tearing sound, then pulling the inverted face from his skull in one theatrical movement. Raziel backed off in horror. Of all the foul, twisted creatures he had encountered on his travels, never had he seen one so inured to self- mutilation. As the stripping continued, shredded skin, rubbery muscle and layers of subcutaneous fat landed wetly, one after another in the steadily growing and ever more grisly pile before the thing that, moments ago, had resembled Janos Audron. Eventually, its outer husk shed, the dark thing that lurked inside unfolded itself, its proportions impossibly outsized in comparison to its vampire cocoon. The beast rose up in lengthening, darkening shadows, its outer form seemingly hewn from chunks of glistening obsidian, vicious teeth and claws the only remaining similarity with the creature it had just vacated.  
  
Raziel finally found his voice, although it cracked somewhat with the revulsion that threatened to drive him from the brink of sanity. "What have you become?"  
  
The Beast responded in a voice that sounded like a record played at the wrong speed, the speaker talking with a mouth full of beetles.  
  
"I am the shiver down your spine, I am a first-born's cry of anguish, I am the knife in a brother's hand, I am steel, I am earth, I am darkness. You should welcome me, reaver of souls. I am your final dissolution."  
  
Raziel forced down the fear that attempted to freeze him, reason taking control as he crouched into a ready position.  
  
"I defy you and your madness! You will die this day by my hand, and I will at last have vengeance for my death at yours."  
  
A laugh that was like the sound of a rattlesnake slithering over whitewashed bones filled the room.  
  
"No, brother," he drew a whistling breath. "No weapon on all Nosgoth may destroy me. Neither claws, fangs nor steel can wrench the life from my body."  
  
"We shall see." The Soul Reaver's eyes narrowed, light glaring from the half-closed slits. None of the other incarnations of his brethren, whether Sarafan or Vampire had been able to stand against his might. This day would see the end of Turel's psychotic life and the end of his own remorseless quest for vengeance.  
  
Justice would at long last be served. 


	12. Defeat

In the darkling gloom of a subterranean cavern, an immortal conflict was about to be resolved. Explosions of dark energy crackled along the outlines of Turel's bastardised form, lending him a macabre aura that emphasised the misshapen grotesquery he had become. The wasted form of his enemy, the long-suffering Raziel, circled the beast cautiously, thirsting claws itching for their first taste of traitorous blood. Nor would they have long to wait: The titanic form of his sibling sent a murderous arm slashing towards him, the rush of air caused by its passing whistling through the barbed spines that protruded from its deformed length. Raziel dodged it easily, using his leap to edge closer to Turel's legs, striking out as he reached them with a clawed attack of his own. His arm rebounded from the immovable mass as though from a block of solid steel, his limb quivering from the shock. As the Soul Reaver stared in disbelief at the unmarked surface before him, a secondary attack from his sibling caught him a glancing blow and he was batted aside with effortless ease to roll to a stop next to Isca, who lay still and unmoving while death hovered nearby.  
  
Raziel cast a woeful glance at his fallen son; although the spurs of bone had receded when Turel's concentration waned, the wounds were bone-deep and plentiful, and dark, viscous blood was pooling rapidly beneath the vampire's torn form. Wilful child. If he had but obeyed - Raziel halted in his train of thought as Isca grabbed his arm, blood bubbling from the devastated creature's mouth as he attempted to speak.  
  
"Freya's weapon . . . is not of this world." Raziel shot a glance to the far side of the room as Turel's words echoed faintly in his mind. The blade gleamed dully in the ghostly light, but, separated from it as he was by Turel's monstrous form, Raziel was uncertain whether he would be able to reach it. Nodding his thanks to his dying offspring, the Soul Reaver bounded to the other side of the room, leaping to a low-hanging ledge to avoid a blast of telekinetic energy aimed at him by his brother. With man- sized chunks of rock exploding out of the wall behind him, Raziel tumbled the last few feet to where Freya sat propped against the wall, shivering from the loss of blood and the pain of her mangled arm. The woman was completely oblivious to his presence until, with a start, she realised that the Soul Reaver was attempting to steal her katana.  
  
"Oi, you cheeky git! Where do you think you're going with that?" she demanded weakly.  
  
Raziel's glance slid from the blade to her face then back again before saying, in a most matter-of-fact-manner, "To commit fratricide."  
  
As she watched the blue-skinned form enter once again into combat with his deformed brother, Freya began to crawl around the back of the cavern towards Isca's body. She had to know for sure.  
  
Turel's derisive laugh rebounded from the cavern walls as Raziel approached him once again.  
  
"So, brother, you seek to defeat me with a girl's weapon? Then again, you were always the most . . . effeminate of us."  
  
Raziel said nothing, but tapped the blade of the katana in his palm as he waited for Turel to finish his senseless rant. The madman's voice softened to one of sneakiness, the insanity in his tone rising with each passing moment. "Try as you may, you cannot defeat me - because I will be responsible for your creation!" A new dementia seemed to seize the beast as he followed the train of thought to its ultimate conclusion. "And when I create you, I will ensure that you are second-born, and that I," he giggled girlishly, a sound more terrifying than any the monstrosity had yet uttered, ". . .will be my . . . first-born son." The monster burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter at the sheer ironic genius of his own plans.  
  
To Raziel, the extent of Turel's jealousy was finally and abundantly clear: even more evident was the need for the insane wretch to be put down. With a determined gesture, he aimed a thrust at Turel's hand, which dangled just above head-height. The creature, true to Raziel's expectations, seized him and hefted him up to eye level. Before his brother could start on another of his rants, Raziel thrust forward with the katana and gouged one of his eyes out. Roaring in pain and disbelief, Turel threw the Soul Reaver from him like a child with a temper tantrum.  
  
Elsewhere in the cave, Freya had, by dint of some strenuous effort, reached Isca's side. She gently drew a lock of hair away from his mouth and smoothed it down to lie with the rest of the jet-black mane. In repose, the vampire's face was calm and solemn, his noble visage adding to the impression that he was an alabaster statue placed in honour of a gallant knight atop an ancient tomb. Her gaze travelled sadly down the fallen body, the wounds left by Turel's cruel magicks gaping and unhealed, marring the perfect flesh of arm and torso. A cracking noise caused her to turn her head sharply towards the fight, where she saw to her horror that Turel had just snapped the Soul Reaver's spine, casting the two halves aside like so much chaff. She caught her breath, believing for one terrifying instant that she was the last remaining irritant for Turel to dispatch. She was proven wrong a moment later when Raziel returned from the Spectral Realm, miraculously whole once more, and renewed his attack on his brother. She was proved doubly wrong in the next instant as a cold claw curved about her wrist. The sensation was unexpected enough to give her a start, but it was more than worth it to see the vampire's eyes flicker as he attempted to open them. One glance at those eyes convinced Freya that he was dying. The gold was gone from the irises, and in its place lingered a dull grey sheen; the pupils were dilated to twice their normal size, and the whites of the eyes were bloodshot beyond compare.  
  
Biting her lip to stay in control, she asked, "Why aren't the wounds healing?"  
  
Painfully, and as though speaking over a great distance, the vampire responded. "Lost too much . . ." He groaned, the energy used in his short speech draining his almost spent reserves.  
  
Freya risked a glance at the two former Lieutenants who were still going at it hammer and tongs: the outcome looked bleak. She considered the options: allow Isca to die and hope that Raziel could defeat his grossly over- evolved sibling - knowing his failure would result in her death, or aid the vampire's recovery and add another immortal warrior to the equation. Closing her eyes briefly as she accepted her own decision, she offered Isca her wrist.  
  
As the failing vampire sensed the offer of fresh blood, something of the man she had come to care for showed through beneath the steadily rising demon that responded to the all-consuming edict of the Thirst.  
  
"This is not how I wanted . . ."  
  
"Shut up and drink."  
  
Grimacing as she found her companion needed no second invitation, Freya turned her attention to the battle, Raziel's failed attempts at piercing his brother's adamantine hide causing her to gasp in amazement as the scene before her reminded her of another: A lone warrior faced a massive demon in a darkened cavern, the only weapon present the Dark Angel katana. With another flash of insight, she recalled Turel's mention that he had consumed the essence of the Blood Demon, infusing him with its power - and maybe its weakness?  
  
In an almost word-for-word reiteration of Raziel's advice to her in her first minutes on Nosgoth, she called out, "Through the heart! Pierce his heart!"  
  
With no time for acknowledgement, the Soul Reaver clambered up Turel's slab- like chest, his claws just able to gain purchase on his brother's rocky skin, splattered as it was with his own ocular fluids.  
  
Turel squinted down at the minute form scrabbling at his chest and laughed. "You think that will destroy me? Your efforts are as futile as those of your miserable fledge!"  
  
Raziel, thoroughly tired of the conversation with his deranged relative, took the sword in a two-handed grip as he knelt on Turel's chest, and, with a feeling of immense satisfaction, plunged it straight into his heart.  
  
"Give my regards to our brothers, you bastard."  
  
Turel erupted in a blaze of purple flame, the ensuing shock wave sending the Soul Reaver straight back into the Spectral Realm, the monster's dying screams a curse on the ears of those who remained.  
  
As Raziel rematerialised in the physical plane, he noted with satisfaction that the blow he had dealt had indeed been fatal. Glancing about to ascertain the state of the room's other occupants, he surmised that he would not return from this adventure alone after all. His son's actions reminded him that he too had a meal waiting for him, and he turned his attention to Turel's body, from which the soul was even now beginning to rise. Raziel had never seen its like: it ascended, bloated and bloody from the corpse of his brother, its bizarre appearance enough to cause the Soul Reaver to hesitate, his cowl half-lowered. He had no idea of the consequences of absorbing so tainted a soul. Just then, the glowing sphere emitted a buzzing frisson, and the crimson taint was forced from the soul, leaving it glowing bright white and huge, but otherwise normal. Knowing that this would constitute the reaving of the last of his brethren's apostate souls, Raziel lowered his cowl and absorbed it.  
  
The room erupted in white fire. 


	13. Restoration

Strong beams of sunlight streamed through the doorway, their hue that coppery shade of reddish gold that belongs solely to late summer afternoons.  Through the open portal of the wooden hut, a faint sound of clucking poultry could be heard, stirring the sleeper within and raising questions as to her location.  Freya awoke to find herself on a bed, her arm lightly bandaged, suggesting that, wherever she was, she had been there long enough for her it to begin to heal. The memory of her shattered limb brought inseparable associations, forcing her to sit bolt upright on the bed in alarm.  The room spun.  When it had stopped, she took stock of her condition: her arm was as yet not fully healed, her carotid artery evinced a slow steady pulse, and, when she got to her feet and wiggled her fingers in the sunlight, they emerged unscathed.  The evidence added up.  She was still alive – but where?  On stepping outside the wooden hut, the afternoon sunlight left her momentarily dazzled and she leaned against the doorframe, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of a rural village.  Someone nudged a tall, bearded man at the centre of the circle of houses who, seeing that she was up and about, downed his tools and approached her.

"You're awake." He observed gruffly.

"Where am I?" she demanded, "How did I get here?"  

The headsman motioned for her to sit down, her difficulty in remaining standing all too clear.

"One of our herders found you at the edge of the swamp about three weeks ago."

Freya blanched.  Three weeks?  Panic bubbled in her gut as she attempted to guess the outcome of the battle.  Raziel must have failed.  But if that was so, then how had she escaped?  Without a word she rose and wobbled unsteadily towards the village gate, the village headsman walking irritably after her.

"Where are you going?"

"To find out what happened to the people I was with."

He caught her arm.  "You're in no fit state to make the journey.  You need to rest and recover your strength."

Freya turned to him with a look of loss so strong it made the aroused a pang of sympathy in the hard-bitten headsman.  

"I have to know . . ."

Reluctantly, he nodded his understanding.  He too had lost loved ones to the malevolent forces of the night.  "It will be dark soon – you don't want to be wandering around out there at night in your condition."  He cut across her protest, adding, "Stay here tonight, have some food and drink, then you can borrow a horse and set out first thing in the morning."

The logic of his words partially overrode the burning anguish that was torturing her during every moment of delay - he was likely right.  Besides, if she'd been here for three weeks, another night was not going to make a difference.

As the grey light of dawn stepped hesitantly across the threshold of the cabin, Freya rose, the vague aura of sleep that had tentatively courted her during the night instantly banished, and she set out for the stable.  As she led the sleepy mare towards the gate, she perceived that the headsman was striding towards her, a bundle in a blanket under his arm.  Her fears that he would attempt to prevent her departure faded as he said, "I have something for you."

Her undeniable relief at having the Dark Angel returned to her possession was marred by the thought that the last time she'd seen it, it had been in Raziel's hand.  Growing more concerned by the moment for the fate of her friends, Freya attached it to her belt, and with a sincere word of thanks rode out of the village.

The deathly silence of the dilapidated building stilled Freya's initial fears that Turel might still be alive.  Using one of her matches to light a brand she found in the outer room, she descended into the narrow tunnel, sword drawn in readiness.  A quick search of the chamber assured her that it was empty, only the remains of Turel's mangled body marking the fact that a titanic battle had been fought here.  Using the flickering golden light to examine the rest of the room, she soon discerned that a great number of cloven footprints surrounded the entrance to the cave.  Knowing that that the vampires of this time had not yet evolved to the cloven feet and clawed hands phase, she surmised that the Razielim had come to aid their leaders.  Raising the torch higher, she perceived the dark shadowy patch where Isca's body had lain – the deep footprints leading away from it suggesting that their maker had been carrying some weight other than his own.  Adding these observations to the knowledge that she had been found at the edge of the swamp, it led her to the only possible conclusion:

They had abandoned her.

*

In a plane of existence unknown to all but those who have passed from the physical realm, a great hall stood.  Its nebulous walls were adorned with scenes of battles, warriors, Gods and men, their scenes constantly shifting to depict an ongoing and universal struggle.  Those who inhabited its sacred confines were men of deeds, heroes and martyrs, villains and victims - Chaos was all-pervading.  It was in this place, the Vampire Halls of the Dead, that Raziel now found himself, his wasted figure incongruous amongst the hale and hearty warriors.  As the reaver of souls stared about him in alarm, an individual detached himself from the crowd and approached him, his face lit by a smile of welcome.

"Janos?"  began the Soul Reaver incredulously, doubt delaying his greeting.  "Or are you Turel?"

"Turel is truly dead, Raziel - and you have a task to perform. You are Nosgoth's saviour."  

Raziel scowled.  He was tired of hearing that phrase.  Janos continued undeterred.  "You have little time here, so listen closely: The Pillars must be restored in order for the vampire creed to live in harmony with the human race."

"This is my purpose?"  Raziel's  scepticism was boundless.  Having spent so long hating and loathing and clawing his vengeance from his former brethren, the thought of spending his days mending the rift between these two species  - to neither of which he now belonged - was uninspiring to say the least.  

"Is it so hard to believe?  You had already begun to work towards this goal when you created the tithe villages."  Janos was smiling at him now, his confidence in the Soul Reaver's abilities apparent in his expression.  

"Make it so."

"How?"

"You have many resources at your disposal, Raziel:  Loyal followers, time-streaming devices, and the Gifts you inherited when you reaved Turel's soul.  You have the pieces of the puzzle – it is for you to decide what to do with them."

Raziel remained where he was, irresolute as he essayed to fathom the enigma.

Janos approached the reaver of souls, his expression sympathetic as he took in the decayed form that Kain's egotistical jealousy had forced on the once-great Lieutenant.  The creature had suffered much – far more than was due him, and the Ancient guessed, rightly enough, that a spot of good fortune would do much to restore Raziel's faith in his purpose.  He gave a secret smile.

"Go now, my son – your vampire partisans await."  And with that, Raziel was cast out of the Vampire Hall of the Dead to continue his work in Nosgoth's Godless lands.

*

Isca, feeling stronger by the second, broke his deathlock on the woman's wrist with some effort and a fair amount of willpower.  During the course of his feeding, he had raised himself to a sitting position and had ended up supporting Freya as her own energy reserves were drained.  Seeing that she lived for the moment, he allowed her to fall back into a position of repose so that he could investigate the outcome of the battle.  As he rose unsteadily to his feet, the sound of a small stampede came to his ears, and his eyes were shortly greeted by the arrival of his Elite, who, after the recent battle, were down to a scant eight.  Indicating to his men that it was safe to approach, he cast one more grateful glance at Freya's unconscious form before moving to join his men at Raziel's side.

His steps slowed as his eyes beheld the sight before him.  Raziel lay slumped against one of the stalagmites that were dotted about the cavern floor.  Isca's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in wonder as he saw the change that had been wrought in his Lord. It seemed that with the defeat of the last of his betrayer kin, some higher power had seen fit to return the one-time vampire to some semblance of his former glory.  Smooth, healthy skin once more covered the muscular contours of his body, his lower jaw sat neatly in place below its partner, and the hair had once again assumed its glossy raven sheen.  There were however some obvious differences: The once-pale skin had retained a hint of the azure blue of his Soul Reaver form, and behind the Dark Lord, folded neatly against his back, were two restored wings, not the bat-like vanes of his downfall, but black, feathered appendages like those of his most ancient ancestors.

He was whole.  More than that, he was Vampire once more.

In a movement abrupt enough to startle the assembled curious, Raziel's eyes flicked open, revealing to all the glowing golden orbs that would bend the world to his will.

He rose in silence, his every nerve thrumming vibrantly, and took in for the first time in an age the sights and sounds afforded by fully-functional vampiric abilities.  Eminently pleased with the results, he raised his arm and clenched and unclenched his talons experimentally, watching in satisfaction as the corresponding muscles bunched and released beneath the flawless skin. After a further moment's perusal, he chuckled and muttered, almost to himself,  

"Very persuasive, Janos."

As though suddenly aware of the presence of his Clan, he looked from one vampire to the next, the burning intensity of his stare inducing each man to lower his eyes.  All except for Isca, who met his gaze unflinchingly and opined with a grin,

"You need trousers."

A pitiful wailing now attracted their attention, and Isca motioned to one of the Elite to search the far corner of the cave.  He returned a moment later with a lemon yellow cot, within whose confines a babe was crying, the ardour of its outcries sufficient to assure those assembled that it had suffered no lasting harm.  The Razielim held it at arms' length.

"What happens now?" asked Isca.

Raziel considered the question.  "First we deliver Kain to Coorhagen so that his life may continue unhindered.  Then . . ." He paused as he realised he still had not figured out Janos' puzzle.  "I'm not sure yet." He admitted.

Isca wandered back over to where Freya lay, deathly pale against the dark earth.

"Is she dead?" Inquired Raziel, wondering what to do about trousers if she was not.

"Not yet."

Having seen the couple's blatant attachment to one another, Raziel was more than a little puzzled at his offspring's hesitation.  "Will she not be joining us?" 

"I'd rather she was back to full strength first."

Filled with sardonic amusement at his son's foibles, Raziel offered a solution.  

"There is a village nearby – we could leave her with their healers while we rest and regroup."  He advocated this idea for several reasons: not only would it mean he would have more time to ascertain his course of action, but it also meant that his men would have a good rest and, from what he'd seen, good hunting.

"In any event, it's about time I had a rest."

This decided, Isca lifted Freya's body from the ground, falling into step next to Raziel as they approached the cave exit.  The cot-bearer walked beside them.

"So this is the future Emperor of Nosgoth," said Raziel, looking at the tiny pink face with a measure of disbelief.

Isca nodded gravely.  "Stinks, doesn't he?"

Raziel grinned impudently.  "No change there."

*

Freya swallowed hard against the feeling of despair that threatened to envelop her as she realised that they – that Isca – had deserted her, leaving her alone and friendless in Nosgoth's past.  As she stood, indecisive and disconsolate in the lowering gloom, she heard the crunch of a booted foot on the rocky shale behind her.  Without hesitation, she swung around, katana raised at head-height, placing the point of the blade unerringly beneath her unknown assailant's chin.  She frowned as the poor torchlight illumined a familiar form, and she raised it higher to make out the facial features of the vampire before her.  With a heartfelt sigh of relief she released the breath she'd been holding, the tension draining from her frame as Isca's bemused smile came into view.

He raised his hands in the air in a comical gesture of capitulation.

"I surrender!"

Freya managed to quash her initial instinct, which was to rush forward and give the teasing bloodsucker a big hug.  Her hesitation was due to two factors: she was still a little upset at their apparent desertion of her, and furthermore, she knew that people often said things in the thick of battle and in the face of death that didn't always hold true when circumstances returned to normal.

"Didn't your parents ever teach you not to sneak up on people?"

"Quite the contrary," he grinned.  Then, glancing pointedly at the blade digging into his Adam's Apple, he asked, "Are you going to put that away or will I have to disarm you?"

Freya allowed the weapon to drop from its position at his throat; in her surprise at seeing him she had all but forgotten that it was still in her hand.  With a million questions begging for answers, Freya began to quiz her companion on the aftermath of the recent duel.

"Isca, What happened to Raziel when he defeated Turel?  Are you alright?  Where is everyone else? Why am I still alive – and why did the villagers find me in the swamp?"

The vampire raised his hands again as though to fend off the barrage. "So many questions!"  His gaze now alit on the burning brand in the woman's hand.  "May I?" he asked, in a patent request for the torch.

Freya handed it over, then using her freed hand to hold her scabbard as she sheathed her sword.  The action completed, she glanced at him just in time to catch the look of mischief on his face as he threw the only cavern's only light source into the furthest corner of the room.

The woman tensed, the vampire's intentions unclear to her. 

". . . What did you do that for?"

He answered by moving closer and sliding an arm about her waist.  

"The light was hurting my eyes."

"Oh. . ."  she managed, before he gathered her up into tight, welcome embrace. With her former misgivings fading by the second, Freya wrapped her arms about his neck and rested her cheek on his shoulder-guard, her feet barely touching the floor.  They remained like that for quite some time, quiet and still in the ebon void, each taking much-needed comfort in the other's proximity. Eventually, Isca's grip slackened, allowing her to slide back to the ground, from where she could just make out his eyes, glinting with gold in the faintest gleam of light that emanated from the distant torch.

"You sidetracked me," she accused.  "Are you going to answer my questions?"

Even in the darkness she could sense that he was grinning again.  "There is no time for that now, and much as I would like to stay here and . . . sidetrack you . . . the others are waiting."

As Freya moved to depart she found that, in direct contradiction to his words, he still had not relinquished his hold. With a soft chuckle, Isca tilted her chin up towards him with his free hand and pressed his lips to hers in a gentle gesture of reunion and greeting.  As the contact intensified, his attentions growing ever deeper and more languorous, sight, sound and awareness of the outside world faded into the background, until there was nothing but the dark ecstasy of his kiss.

*


	14. Future Lands

That balmy evening found the remaining Razielim seated about a campfire in companionable conversation. Raziel had told them little of his plans, apart from the necessity to travel in time in order for him to fulfil the mission with which he had been charged. As a final preparatory measure before they set off, he advised his troops that he had no idea when they might next have an opportunity to feed, and that they should therefore take advantage of their present circumstances and head out for one final hunt. As his glowing gaze wandered over his drastically reduced party, Raziel observed that Isca & Freya were sitting together again. Initially, it had struck him as rather bizarre that the former Sarafan P'ramma should be courting his second-in-command. However, if his suspicions were correct, there would be a new addition to their ranks before too long, and any remaining trace of Sarafan connections would be forever eradicated. He smiled to himself as he accepted that things did have a habit of coming full-circle. A commotion about the fire disturbed his thoughts, and moments later, the vampires departed in search of prey, leaving Freya and Raziel alone.  
  
Freya tucked into the remains of the meal she had prepared for herself, glancing up at Raziel when she saw he hadn't joined the others.  
  
"Not going hunting?"  
  
Raziel shook his head slowly, regarding her with a frown as a new train of thought assailed him. Since Isca had informed him that the woman had not come through the chronoplast with them, he was naturally curious about her presence. With so many enemies lurking in seemingly innocuous guises, her being here - not a day older than the last time he had seen her - was a tad suspicious.  
  
"How did you get here?"  
  
Throwing the last of the bones into the fire, she shrugged and grinned. "I have absolutely no idea." Then, seeing no reason why Raziel shouldn't now have the same knowledge as his son, she told him her own story in its entirety.  
  
When she had finished, he nodded his understanding. "Isca told me most of this while you were recovering, although it seems you missed something out this time." Freya raised her eyebrows questioningly, wondering what she had omitted.  
  
"He told me that you knew about my downfall."  
  
Freya's heart skipped a beat. Her worst fears were confirmed. She prepared herself for flight - not that it would do much good if he decided to use that Mutate ability he had recently acquired. She had seen a couple of this age's vampirekind fall foul of that one and was in no hurry to try it out for herself.  
  
To her surprise and immense relief, he smiled. "You are concerned about the possibility of reprisal - there is no need: all things happen for a reason. As Kain once said, (in a rare moment of clarity, I might add) 'free will is an illusion'. Certain pivotal events are immutable. If I were to travel through time now to attempt to prevent my own death, I would fail. The cosmic forces are too strong."  
  
Freya relaxed slightly.  
  
"Besides, Isca tells me you tried to avert it."  
  
The woman nodded vigorously.  
  
"Thankyou."  
  
She looked at him in amazement.  
  
"You were planning to warn me in return for my giving you those texts, were you not?"  
  
Freya nodded again, wondering at his insight and finally finding her voice. "They were my driving force for a long time," she replied, reminiscing. "Whatever happened to them?"  
  
Raziel shook his head, the events beyond his knowledge. He looked up as Isca returned and took his seat next to Freya, licking his lips before offering his own contribution to the conversation.  
  
"Kain appropriated your personal effects after your death, and took them to the Sanctuary of the Clans. No doubt he deposited them with the rest of his hoard in the vault beneath his throne."  
  
Raziel caught Freya's eye and asked mockingly, "Are you in such a hurry to return to your own world?"  
  
Finding herself suddenly and vehemently hauled against Isca's side, Freya replied in the negative, affording the glaring vampire a placatory glance.  
  
"Speaking of Kain," managed Freya when she could breathe again, "What did you do with the baby?"  
  
"We took him back to Coorhagen." Replied Isca. "His entire family was slaughtered, so the orphanage took him in."  
  
With the return of the remainder of the Clan, they made ready to depart for the nearest time-streaming device. As they travelled, Freya found herself musing on what changes these new circumstances might wreak on Kain's life: whereas before he had been the spoiled son of a nobleman, how would early life as an orphan affect the scourge of Nosgoth?  
  
A few hours' march brought them to their goal. As the vampires trouped through the grand entrance, Freya hung back, one last question burning in her mind. Catching Isca's arm to delay his passing, she asked him,  
  
"Why am I still alive?" The vampire stared guilelessly back, his face giving nothing away. "I thought you wanted . . ."  
  
"Oh I do," he interjected, "And I will. But not until you're back to full health."  
  
That made no sense. She twitched her brows in query. Isca grinned back in that inimitable, predatory way of his.  
  
"Otherwise, where's the challenge?"  
  
A multitude of tumultuous thoughts were swept away as he ushered her into the time-streaming chamber where Raziel was even now activating the controls.  
  
Time warped.  
  
*  
  
As the Razielim emerged from the dilapidated building, their steps slowed as these sons of Nosgoth's Vampiric Empire beheld for the first time the ruin to which the Master Vampire had condemned their land. Horrified at the devastation, they followed Raziel's unerring steps towards the nearest Warp Gate, the activation of which took them quickly back to their own Clanlands. As Raziel pushed open the heavy door that led onto the raised dais at the back of the main hall, the out-of-time vampires became keenly aware of the true desolation that this future held. The lofty roof had long ago fallen in, its rubble appropriated sometime in the distant past for use in other areas. In its place there was nought but mist and the occasional circling raven. Along every wall, the bases of toppled columns rose like yellowed teeth in an aged skull, their upper reaches lying in formless heaps on the cracked floor. Despite this, the faded, tattered Clan banners still fluttered in the feeble breeze, and the blazing pyre that marked the centre of the dais still burned with a flame that would endure as long as but one of the Razielim yet lived.  
  
Cutting across his Clan's despondent thoughts with a voice imbued with resolute strength and messianic purpose, Raziel spoke:  
  
"This is where it begins. Nosgoth's past is beyond redemption. It is now, in this forsaken time that the healing will be undertaken."  
  
Raziel turned his to face his men once again, his eyes ablaze as he informed them that he had at last discovered a way to restore the Pillars, and thereby the land. Every eye in the room was fixed on him in rapt attention. A heartbeat later, that unmistakeable shimmering sensation split the air between Freya and the Vampire Lord, and the woman screamed her defiance at the whim of whatever being was making her shift again. She had finally become accustomed to life here on Nosgoth with all its quirks, and she didn't want to return to Earth - especially not now. This time however, something was different. Although the vista before her was shimmering as though with heat haze, the rest of her surroundings were not. In fact, it only seemed to be affecting Raziel.  
  
The room fell into utter chaos as Nosgoth's intended deliverer vanished from sight. 


	15. Secrets

An argument instantly erupted amongst the remaining members of the Clan. Opinion was highly divided - some thought their Lord had teleported to another location, others that he had been spirited away by some unknown force in an attempt to keep him from restoring the Pillars; still others were of the view that he had voluntarily entered the time-stream. As they had no full grasp of their Lord's abilities since his defeat of his brother, any one of these opinions seemed equally valid. Freya, on the other hand, had seen this particular phenomenon on three occasions already and was left in no doubt as to its meaning. In a flash, she remembered the texts - she now had their location, and if, as she had always believed, they did hold the secret to travelling between Earth and Nosgoth, they now constituted the Clan's best chance of finding Raziel.  
  
Seeing that there was no chance of interrupting the heated dispute that had broken out between the other nine, Freya turned to the Elite next to her as she began to run, her revelation spilling out as the mystery unravelled, "He hasn't gone time-streaming - he's gone world-hopping."  
  
The vampire watched her departure in bemusement.  
  
A half hour and a brief tussle with a rusted lever later, Freya descended cautiously into the vault below Kain's throne. As she progressed, she used the torch she had found outside to light the oil-filled braziers that constituted the room's light sources. She recoiled as the illumination revealed grisly trophies of Kain's victories, her expression shortly changing to one of wonder as she beheld the true scope of the chamber and the veritable hoard contained therein. Unsure as to where to look first, she moved towards the back of the room in order to begin a methodical search. Although the task was onerous, her resolve was strengthened by the thought that, in finding the documents, not only might she be able to help the Razielim, but she would at long last complete the quest that had led her through so many adventures. Her searching gaze alit almost immediately on a most incongruous-looking stone sarcophagus in the corner of the room, whose heavy lid eventually clattered to the floor to reveal none other than the long-sought-after Sarafan documents. With a wild grin of elation and a gleeful chuckle, she began to extract them.  
  
Isca, meanwhile, had endeavoured to take control once again, and was currently barking orders right left and centre, trying to assess what just happened. Having coerced his men into some semblance of calm, he realised belatedly that Freya was also missing. He gave an exasperated sigh before asking if anyone had noticed where the woman had gone. When her parting words were passed to him by the guard who saw her leave, Isca, by dint of some insightful deductive reasoning, guessed her intentions. With a look of absolute terror on his face, he abandoned his men and raced off in the direction of the Sanctuary, knowing that she had gone to attempt to reclaim the texts, and praying to whatever Gods might still remain that he would get there in time.  
  
He knew what guarded the vault.  
  
In the musty gloom of Kain's treasure chamber, a hissing, slithering sound caused Freya to freeze in her rummaging and glance behind her. The room remained devoid of life - no doubt her presence had disturbed the centuries of dust that lay like a silken shroud over the Master Vampire's possessions. She returned to her examination of the multitude of leather- bound books and yellowed, crinkled papers only to find the sound was repeated. Putting down the sheaf she was holding, she freed her katana from its restraint and turned to appraise the room anew. The sound continued to echo from the lofty walls, the resonance disguising its source, and inducing the woman to stalk back down the main pathway to track down the cause. Before long, the sound reached a crescendo, bringing her to a halt at an archway flanked by two large chests, its depths lost in shadow. As she peered into the unfathomable blackness, something stirred within, and a weighty dragging sound accompanied the emergence into the light of a sight that made Freya's blood run cold.  
  
The creature that dragged itself into the wan torchlight was as something from a fevered dream. That it had once been humanoid was probable, but far from certain: though it was bipedal, it seemed to have acquired a few extra limbs around its upper body in addition to the usual pair of arms. These appendages rose behind it in a blatant display of aggression, vicious, wedge-shaped stabbing claws adorning each extremity. Aside from these characteristics, the creature had obviously suffered much to become as it was: every joint on its entire form had been bent backwards ninety degrees in the wrong direction, the tendons and sinews holding the limbs stretched almost to snapping point. Worse still, the hapless beast's internal organs had been forced to the outside, each ruddy sac bloated and glistening and oozing odious sludge.  
  
Freya needed little time to recognise that this was Kain's handiwork. Not only did this fit in perfectly with the characteristics of his final Dark Gift, but it was typical of the callous vampire master to have made the creature undead before consigning it to eternities of pain. The monster's face evinced its interminable and constant suffering, and it shortly became apparent in a moment that Freya would dearly have loved to forget, that the creature had retained its hold on life only by feeding on itself. A foul, phlegmy sound now caught her ear, and the woman realised in a second of awful clarity that it was attempting to speak. As the wasted vocal chords that had formed no word in the long aeons since Kain's damnation began to reverberate, Freya understood what the beast was trying to say:  
  
"P'ramma."  
  
There was now no way to prevent the knowledge from flooding into her consciousness, and as she looked closely at the ravaged, scarred face that rode atop the hideously elongated neck, the identity of the creature became undeniably clear.  
  
"Antaris!"  
  
Despite her horror and revulsion, Freya found she still felt pity for her one-time nemesis, abandoned here for who knew how many centuries in unimaginable agony, consigned to self-consumption in order to survive: no enemy deserved that. With a half-formed idea that she might try to mend the age-old rift between herself and the former Sarafan Lord, Freya lowered her weapon in a gesture of truce.  
  
The creature seemed to relax somewhat, its fearsome appendages sinking towards the ground as it seemed to sense her intentions. Freya nodded slowly, keeping her eyes locked on the glittering black orbs that seemed to have been piled haphazardly onto the elongated face. Suddenly, the sharp- toothed jaw broke into a grotesque imitation of a grin as, in a movement too fast for the human eye to perceive, Antaris stabbed at her with two of his razor-sharp appendages, the first shearing straight through her shoulder and the other partially penetrating the right side of her abdomen. Too shocked even to scream, Freya found herself lifted aloft and pulled closer to the beast's drooling maw until their faces were inches apart. With a grimace of repulsion and pain, she summoned what strength remained in her and drove the Dark Angel straight into the monstrosity's chest. Enraged, and with no apparent ill-effects from her attempted impalement, Antaris slammed the woman into the ground with a satisfying crunch. Astounded by the creature's survival of her attack, Freya soon became aware that the demonic hilt of her sword was pressing ever closer to her own chest. Even worse, she found that Antaris was dribbling on her, and with a lascivious flick of his distended, putrescent tongue, he hissed,  
  
"Just where I always wanted you."  
  
Turning her head to avoid the putrid stench that issued from the horror's twisted mouth, she realised she must either act now or be crushed by the downwards pressure of her own weapon. With regret foremost in her mind, she began to force the hilt of the katana to the right, driving the tempered steel past its breaking point until it gave with a metallic snapping sound that echoed the heartbreak she felt at the demise of her staunch ally. With the upper half of the sword free, she tugged it out of the way and, with a scream of pain as the spined claw embedded in her upper body tore at the muscles she had no choice but to use, she drove the remains of the sword into the misshapen beast's brain. With an almighty roar, Antaris raised himself to his hind legs, his head colliding with the vaulted ceiling, his death throes freeing the woman from his penetrating grip. With a final cry that spoke more of release than fear, the foul thing that had once been a Sarafan warrior collapsed dead before the entrance to Kain's vault.  
  
As the light faded from Antaris' tortured eyes, Freya looked down at her own wounds: the tear in her shoulder, although the claw had passed straight through, was likely not fatal, but the gaping hole in her lower abdomen did not bode well. She was frequently surprised at how much blood the human body could hold. With a grim smile, she accepted her fate, and, knowing that her remaining time could probably be counted in minutes, she began to drag herself towards the opened sarcophagus.  
  
With one hand holding her innards in, she began to rifle through the papers. To her complete astonishment, she found the majority of them were written in Spanish. As she glanced distractedly at page after page of the yellowed texts, she found a wide diversity of information, ranging from ancient Sarafan battle plans to song lyrics that she recognised. Freya began to wonder if her mind had gone. Pushing the papers to one side, she dug through the dusty tomes, her attention eventually caught by an incongruous blue notebook with a logo on the cover which was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, not from Nosgoth. Consumed with curiosity despite the growing pain of her wounds, she began to read.  
  
The first few pages read as an introduction to the owner of the notebook. The majority of its contents were also in Spanish, except for a small number of words which, in common with all true bilingual societies, were often written in the dominant language. With her knowledge of linguistics it was easy for her to see how the three repeated phrases; "Gaming guide", "Release Date" and "Programmer" had through centuries of oral corruption and consonantal drift been changed to "Gaminged", Relstadt" and "P'ramma".  
  
She had at long last found the basis for the Sarafan prophecies, and the dying woman uttered an exhausted laugh at the irony of the revelation, an act which caused her to cough up a handful of some black, tarry substance. Freya continued to read in the time she had left to her.  
  
A heavy pounding began at the far end of the room as a mighty shoulder was set forcedly against the solid bronze door that allowed ingress to the chamber. Unfortunately, the weighty bulk of the thing that had been Antaris prevented the door from budging more than an inch. The one-time Sarafan lay still and cold, only through his own death able to keep the P'ramma from the one thing that could save her life. The thudding increased as the desperate vampire began to throw himself repeatedly against the door.  
  
Detached from the noise, Freya read on. The next few pages were in diary form and constituted the account of the arrival of an Earth-born computer programmer on Nosgoth. It went on to describe his horror at the actions of the vampire oppressors, and his instigation of a cult of warrior priests, sworn to protect humanity from the jaws of the undead. As the diary progressed, it became evident that the author had given up all hope of returning to Earth, and had given himself completely to the struggle. The last entry was in a different hand and in Nosgoth's current script, written by a man who claimed to be his squire. Apparently, the human Raziel, whose journal she was now reading, became a martyr when he died at the hands of some yellow-eyed, blue-skinned demon shortly after he had taken the life of one Janos Audron - a most ancient evil by all accounts.  
  
The maniacal laughter resounded in hideous echoes off the walls of the airtight chamber, gradually subsiding into spasmodic, choking coughs until silence once again reigned unchallenged.  
  
The End 


	16. Epilogue & Notes

Epilogue  
  
Author's Note.  
  
These last few paragraphs are the reason there's a story. I wrote this about 3 months ago when I had a half-formed idea for a plot (see notes below). In my attempt to write a tale that fit the twist, I have ended up with some 60,000 words of PADDING!  
  
It seems a bit hokey now after that dark ending, but I think it deserves inclusion - it's up to you whether you take it as part of the story or not.  
  
Anyway, Raziel has just vanished from the Sanctuary in plain sight of his Clan, and the epilogue picks up from his point of view . . .  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
As his surroundings began to solidify, memories flooded back into his ancient vampire brain, reminding him of the names of all the unfamiliar objects before him. He was back home, sitting at his desk, his 'keyboard' at its usual rakish angle, and his 'Kermit beanie' stuck to the side of the 'VDU'. He remembered now; speckled memories filtering through the millennia of corruption, but growing stronger by the moment as his eyes familiarised themselves with his surroundings once again. He was form 'Earth'. 'California', to be exact. He was a 'Programmer', he had been shifted out of his own world by an unknown power - he looked at this clock - about 5 minutes ago, and since then he had been living the life of a Vampire Lord on some devastated planet.  
  
He began to type, the letters and numbers coming hesitantly at first, but by and by with more surety until his fingers (all ten of them - that would take some getting used to) were fairly flying over the keys. He worked feverishly for days, running on pure inspiration until he reached a point where he could rest. The basis was complete. The guys at work could take it from here. He even knew of a certain oil tycoon who would be willing to fund the development. He sat back and stretched his cramped muscles, diminished now by comparison with his former self, and admired the code for his new game, the one that was going to take the gaming market by storm and get him that promotion.  
  
The one he was going to call "Soul Reaver."  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
Notes  
  
Well, there you have it. What a marathon for that one little twist.  
  
I imagine some of you are disappointed that there is no description of the restoration of the Pillars / Nosgoth itself, but I think I'd rather wait and see what happens in Soul Reaver 3. Besides, I need to wrap this up because I'm getting 'Primal' delivered any day and I plan to spend most of my spare time playing that over the next little while.  
  
Please feel free to leave any thoughts you have on either of these stories - I'd appreciate it. : )  
  
Many thanks to everyone who came along for the ride, and to all those who reviewed - especially Kittie, whose lavish reviews convinced me to read her amazing Labyrinth fic (anyone who hasn't yet should check it out), Deionarra, who is about the only person I've ever seen give a truly well- rounded review, MikotoTribal (who, by the way is writing an absolutely astounding SR fic - though not many people seem to be REVIEWING!) and last but not least, TotalDestruction, without whose early encouraging (if manic) reviews this story - or rather the prequel- would probably not have gone past Chapter 1. I'm glad I've finally got this out of my system, maybe now I can stop obsessing about Soul Reaver and get on with things I should be doing. (Ha!)  
  
This story turned out *nothing* like I planned. The first half was originally a romance with a love triangle between Antaris, Freya and Raziel - but the Sarafan Lord decided to be completely dislikeable from chapter 1, so that ruled him out, and the rest of the story sort of wrote itself, probably saving us all from mountains of gorgonzola. I also wrote a lot of scenes early on that I had to cut because the story went off down a completely different path *looks around and stuffs bloodletting scene in virtual bin along with the blackmailing one*. Humph!  
  
Bye y'all!  
  
Lilith  
  
*tucks Lt. Raziel figure under arm - pauses to remove pointy wings - turns off computer, and wanders off to embroider Clan symbols on her underwear*  
  
You think I'm joking, don't you? Bwahahahahaaaaaa! 


	17. Review Response

Review Responses - Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and to anyone who read, enjoyed and didn't review - thanks for reading.  
  
*Spiteful Hope*  
  
I wouldn't say that Antaris won - after all, he's dead! And yes, on very rare occasions, I have been known to be evil. : )  
  
Seriously, though, I had this particular ending planned from the very start, and I really liked the idea of the whole adventure being an exercise in futility. Besides, I was quite taken by the twisted romance of that final scenario - Antaris keeping Isca & Freya apart even though he was dead.  
  
*MikotoTribal*  
  
Erm . . . where'd you get the idea I slept with my Raziel figure???? I think my bloke would be a bit put out if I took a plastic toy to bed with me! Hehe. Although I did have to take him out of that awful packaging, poor dear - I'm sure it must have been horribly stuffy travelling all the way from the States at *ridiculous* amounts of postage. He's currently enjoying pride of place next to Darkness from Legend on top of my model cabinet.  
  
I really appreciated your reviewing so soon, by the way - it put my mind to rest, as it happens, 'cos I had been worrying that the ending was confusing and unclear. Apparently not. Anyway, get on with your story, you, 'cos I'm dying of suspense over here!  
  
Kittie  
  
Yeah, totally see where you're coming from with the Blade thing - though I hadn't considered the similarity 'cos it was on a *bit* of a tangent. ; ) I have to admit I rather like Raziel's cloak being cloth - it flows a lot better when you swish him around and make him fight Kain (not that I do, of course.) 0 : ) Oh, and I partially agree about the detail below the waist, although I think it looks better from behind. *swoon*  
  
*  
  
To anyone who's still reading. . .  
  
*  
  
Since I stopped writing I've been inspired with hundreds of ideas for a sequel and I'm trying REALLY hard to resist but I'm not sure I've got the willpower . . . OK, I admit it. I've already started writing it. So much for going cold turkey.  
  
Seeya soon.  
  
Lilith  
  
p.s. Can someone please tell me know to do bold and italics? *whimper* I never thought I was such a technophobe . . . 


End file.
